A Noble Type Of Good. Heroic Womanhood.

There Is Nothing Holier In This Life Of Ours Than The First Consciousness Of Love, The First Fluttering Of Its Silken Wings.

Art Is The Child Of Nature.

Dead He Is Not, But Departed, For The Artist Never Dies.

Much Must He Toil Who Serves The Immortal Gods.

By The Shore Of Gitche Gumee, By The Shining Big-sea-water, At The Doorway Of His Wigwam, In The Pleasant Summer Morning, Hiawatha Stood And Waited.