Every Person Born Into This World Their

The Dandelions And Buttercups Gild All The Lawn: The Drowsy Bee Stumbles Among The Clover Tops, And Summer Sweetens All To Me.

Whom The Heart Of Man Shuts Out, Sometimes The Heart Of God Takes In, And Fences Them All Round About With Silence Mid The Worlds Loud Din.

The Sentimentalist Does Not Think Of What He Does So Much As Of What The World Will Think Of What He Does.

Books Are The Bees Which Carry The Quickening Pollen From One To Another Mind.

A Friendship Counting Nearly Forty Years Is The Finest Kind Of Shade-tree I Know.