Dumb As A Drum Vith A Hole

Father Time Is Not Always A Hard Parent And Though He Tarries For None Of His Children, Often Lays His Hand Lightly Upon Those Who Have Used Him Well; Making Them Old Men And Women Inexorably Enough, But Leaving Their Hearts And Spirits Young And In Full Vigor. With Such People The Gray Head Is But The Impression Of The Old Fellow's Hand In Giving Them His Blessing, And Every Wrinkle But A Notch In The Quiet Calendar Of A Well-spent Life.

Go Ye, Who Rest So Placidly Upon The Sacred Bard Who Had Been Young, And When He Strung His Harp Was Old, And Had Never Seen The Righteous Forsaken, Or His Seed Begging Their Bread; Go, Teachers Of Content And Honest Pride, Into The Mine, The Mill, The Forge, The Squalid Depths Of Deepest Ignorance, And Uttermost Abyss Of Man's Neglect, And Say Can Any Hopeful Plant Spring Up In Air So Foul That It Extinguishes The Soul's Bright Torch As Fast As It Is Kindled!

Although I Am An Old Man, Night Is Generally My Time For Walking.

There Are Chords In The Human Heart- Strange, Varying Strings- Which Are Only Struck By Accident; Which Will Remain Mute And Senseless To Appeals The Most Passionate And Earnest, And Respond At Last To The Slightest Casual Touch.

I Should Never Have Made My Success In Life If I Had Not Bestowed Upon The Least Thing I Have Ever Undertaken The Same Attention And Care That I Have Bestowed Upon The Greatest.