Old Marley Was Dead As

Day Was Breaking At Plashwater Weir Mill Lock. Stars Were Yet Visible, But There Was Dull Light In The East That Was Not The Light Of Night. The Moon Had Gone Down, And A Mist Crept Along The Banks Of The River, Seen Through Which The Trees Were The Ghosts Of Trees, And The Water Was The Ghost Of Water. This Earth Looked Spectral, And So Did The Pale Stars: While The Cold Eastern Glare, Expressionless As To Heat Or Colour, With The Eye Of The Firmament Quenched, Might Have Been Likened To The Stare Of The Dead.

The Man Who Now Confronted Gashford, Was A Squat, Thickset Personage, With A Low, Retreating Forehead, A Coarse Shock Head Of Hair, And Eyes So Small And Near Together, That His Broken Nose Alone Seemed To Prevent Their Meeting And Fusing Into One Of The Usual Size.

That Sort Of Half Sigh, Which, Accompanied By Two Or Three Slight Nods Of The Head, Is Pity's Small Change In General Society.

A Day Wasted On Others Is Not Wasted On One's Self.

Happiness Is A Gift And The Trick Is Not To Expect It, But To Delight In It When It Comes.