I Had A Farm In

There Are Things Which Cannot Be Carried Through Even With The Good Will Of Everybody Concerned

What Is Man, When You Come To Think Upon Him, But A Minutely Set, Ingenious Machine For Turning With Infinite Artfulness, The Red Wine Of Shiraz Into Urine?

In Africa, When You Pick Up A Book Worth Reading, Out Of The Deadly Consignments Which Good Ships Are Always Being Made To Carry Out All The Way From Europe, You Read It As An Author Would Like His Book To Be Read, Praying To God That He May Have It In Him To Go On As Beautifully As He Has Begun. Your Mind Runs, Transported, Upon A Fresh Deep Green Track.

Some Travelers Are Drawn Forward By A Goal Lying Before Them In The Way Iron Is Drawn To The Magnet. Others Are Driven On By A Force Lying Behind Them. In Such A Way The Bowstring Makes The Arrow Fly.

The Divine Art Is The Story.