All The Sugar Was In The Bottom

Every Life Has Its Actual Blanks, Which The Ideal Must Fill Up, Or Which Else Remain Bare & Profitless Forever.

He Has Sounded Forth The Trumpet That Shall Never Call Retreat; He Is Sifting Out The Hearts Of Men Before His Judgment-seat. Oh! Be Swift My Soul To Answer Him, Be Jubilant My Feet! Our God Is Marching On.

In The Nature Of Things, I Must Soon Lose Sight Of This Sense Of Constant Metamorphosis Whose Limits Bound Our Human Life.

In Virgil's Account Of The Good Housewife, Who Rises Early In Order To Measure Out The Work Of The Household, And In Solomon's Description Of The Thrifty Woman Of His Time, One Sees The Value Set Upon Feminine Industry And Economy In Times Far Removed From Our Own.

I Shall Stick To My Resolution Of Writing Always What I Think No Matter Whom It Offends.