I Plodded Conscientiously Through The Twenty-six Letters,

That Is Just The Way With Memory; Nothing That She Brings To Us Is Complete. She Is A Willful Child; All Her Toys Are Broken. I Remember Tumbling Into A Huge Dust-hole When A Very Small Boy, But I Have Not The Faintest Recollection Of Ever Getting Out Again; And If Memory Were All We Had To Trust To, I Should Be Compelled To Believe I Was There Still.

It Is Easy Enough To Say That Poverty Is No Crime. No; If It Were Men Wouldn't Be Ashamed Of It. It Is A Blunder, Though, And Is Punished As Such. A Poor Man Is Despised The Whole World Over.

Opportunities Flit By While We Sit Regretting The Chances We Have Lost, And The Happiness That Comes To Us We Heed Not, Because Of The Happiness That Is Gone.

It Seems To Me So Shocking To See The Precious Hours Of A Man's Life - The Priceless Moments That Will Never Come Back To Him Again - Being Wasted In A Mere Brutish Sleep.

Idleness, Like Kisses, To Be Sweet Must Be Stolen.