I Have No Gift Of Words, But

It Was The Forty-fathom Slumber That Clears The Soul And Eye And Heart, And Sends You To Breakfast Ravening. They Emptied A Big Tin Dish Of Juicy Fragments Of Fish- The Blood-ends The Cook Had Collected Overnight. They Cleaned Up The Plates And Pans Of The Elder Mess, Who Were Out Fishing, Sliced Pork For The Midday Meal, Swabbed Down The Foc'sle, Filled The Lamps, Drew Coal And Water For The Cook, An Investigated The Fore-hold, Where The Boat's Stores Were Stacked. It Was Another Perfect Day - Soft, Mild And Clear; And Harvey Breathed To The Very Bottom Of His Lungs.

Those Who Only Know England Know Not England.

A Black Shadow Dropped Down Into The Circle. It Was Bagheera The Black Panther, Inky Black All Over, But With The Panther Markings Showing Up In Certain Lights Like The Pattern Of Watered Silk. Everybody Knew Bagheera, And Nobody Cared To Cross His Path, For He Was As Cunning As Tabaqui, As Bold As The Wild Buffalo, And As Reckless As The Wounded Elephant. But He Had A Voice As Soft As Wild Honey Dripping From A Tree, And A Skin Softer Than Down.

Take Up The White Man's Burden -- Send Forth The Best Ye Breed -- Go, Bind Your Sons To Exile To Serve Your Captives Need.

Too Much Work And Too Much Energy Kill A Man Just As Effectively As Too Much Assorted Vice Or Too Much Drink.