A Woman In Love Is A Very

Man's Record Upon This Wild World Is The Record Of Work, And Of Work Alone.

Poet, Forger Of Ideals, Dreamer Among The Possibilities Of Life, Prophet Of The Millenium, Do You Get Impatient With The Prosaic Life Around You -- The Dulness, And The Earthliness, And The Brutishness Of Men? Fret Not. Go Forward Into The Realm Which Stretches Before You; Climb The Highest Mountain You Can Reach, And Plant A Cross There. The Nations Will Come Up To It Some Day. Work For Immortality If You Will; Then Wait For It. If Your Own Age Fail To Recognize You, A Coming Age Will Not.

Gossip Is Always A Personal Confession Either Of Malice Or Imbecility, And The Young Should Not Only Shun It, But By The Most Thorough Culture Relieve Themselves From All Temptation To Indulge In It. It Is A Low, Frivolous, And Too Often A Dirty Business. There Are Country Neighborhoods In Which It Rages Like A Pest. Churches Are Split In Pieces By It. Neighbors Are Made Enemies By It For Life. In Many Persons It Degenerates Into A Chronic Disease, Which Is Practically Incurable. Let The Young Cure It While They May.

God Be Thanked That There Are Some In The World To Whose Hearts The Barnacles Will Not Cling.

The Pleasant Converse Of The Fireside, The Simple Songs Of Home, The Words Of Encouragement As I Bend Over My School-tasks, The Kiss As I Lie Down To Rest, The Patient Bearing With The Freaks Of My Restless Nature, The Gentle Counsels Mingled With Reproofs And Approvals, The Sympathy That Meets And Assuages Every Sorrow, And Sweetens Every Little Success--all These Return To Me Amid The Responsibilities Which Press Upon Me Now, And I Feel As If I Had Once Lived In Heaven, And, Straying, Had Lost My Way.