I Can Never Close My Lips Where

I Only Ask To Be Free. The Butterflies Are Free. Mankind Will Surely Not Deny To Harold Skimpole What It Concedes To The Butterflies.

The Wide Stare Stared Itself Out For One While; The Sun Went Down In A Red, Green, Golden Glory; The Stars Came Out In The Heavens, And The Fire-flies Mimicked Them In The Lower Air, As Men May Feebly Imitate The Goodness Of A Better Order Of Beings; The Long Dusty Roads And The Interminable Plains Were In Repose-and So Deep A Hush Was On The Sea, That It Scarcely Whispered Of The Time When It Shall Give Up Its Dead.

There Is Prodigious Strength In Sorrow And Despair.

Every Traveler Has A Home Of His Own, And He Learns To Appreciate It The More From His Wandering.

The New Year, Like An Infant Heir To The Whole World, Was Waited For, With Welcomes, Presents, And Rejoicings.