A Clear Fire, A Clean

An Album Is A Garden, Not For Show Planted, But Use; Where Wholesome Herbs Should Grow.

Not Childhood Alone, But The Young Man Till Thirty, Never Feels Practically That He Is Mortal.

I Counsel Thee, Shut Not Thy Heart, Nor Thy Library.

The Cheerful Sabbath Bells, Wherever Heard, Strike Pleasant On The Sense, Most Like The Voice Of One, Who From The Far-off Hills Proclaims Tidings Of Good To Zion.

Judge Not Man By His Outward Manifestation Of Faith; For Some There Are Who Tremblingly Reach Out Shaking Hands To The Guidance Of Faith; Others Who Stoutly Venture In The Dark Their Human Confidence, Their Leader, Which They Mistake For Faith; Some Whose Hope Totters Upon Crutches; Others Who Stalk Into Futurity Upon Stilts. The Difference Is Chiefly Constitutional With Them.