A Man Ain't Got No Right To

It's In Vain To Recall The Past, Unless It Works Some Influence Upon The Present.

He Was Consious Of A Thousand Odours Floating In The Air, Each One Connected With A Thousand Thoughts, And Hopes, And Joys, And Cares, Long, Long, Forgotten.

The Expression Of A Man's Face Is Commonly A Help To His Thoughts, Or Glossary On His Speech; But The Countenance Of Newman Noggs, In His Ordinary Moods, Was A Problem Which No Stretch Of Ingenuity Could Solve.

The Wide Stare Stared Itself Out For One While; The Sun Went Down In A Red, Green, Golden Glory; The Stars Came Out In The Heavens, And The Fire-flies Mimicked Them In The Lower Air, As Men May Feebly Imitate The Goodness Of A Better Order Of Beings; The Long Dusty Roads And The Interminable Plains Were In Repose-and So Deep A Hush Was On The Sea, That It Scarcely Whispered Of The Time When It Shall Give Up Its Dead.

Not Knowing How He Lost Himself, Or How He Recovered Himself, He May Never Feel Certain Of Not Losing Himself Again.