We Are Always On The

Love Is The River Of Life In This World. Think Not That Ye Know It Who Stand At The Little Tinkling Rill, The First Small Fountain. Not Until You Have Gone Through The Rocky Gorges, And Not Lost The Stream; Not Until You Nave Gone Through The Meadow, And The Stream Has Widened And Deepened Until Fleets Could Ride On Its Bosom; Not Until Beyond The Meadow You Have Come To The Unfathomable Ocean, And Poured Your Treasures Into Its Depths--not Until Then Can You Know What Love Is.

As Flowers Carry Dewdrops, Trembling On The Edges Of The Petals, And Ready To Fall At The First Waft Of Wind Or Brush Of Bird, So The Heart Should Carry Its Beaded Words Of Thanksgiving; And At The First Breath Of Heavenly Flavor, Let Down The Shower, Perfumed With The Heart's Gratitude.

Children Are Unpredictable. You Never Know What Inconsistency They Are Going To Catch You In Next.

Now Comes The Mystery.

The Continuance And Frequent Fits Of Anger Produce In The Soul A Propensity To Be Angry; Which Oftentimes Ends In Choler, Bitterness, And Moronity, When The Mid Becomes Ulcerated, Peevish, And Querulous, And Is Wounded By The Least Occurrence.