It Is The Curse Of Prosperity That

Christ And The Life Of Christ Is At This Moment Inspiring The Literature Of The World As Never Before, And Raising It Up A Witness Against Waste And Want And War. It May Confess Him, As In Tolstoi's Work It Does, Or It May Deny Him, But It Cannot Exclude Him; And In The Degree That It Ignores His Spirit, Modern Literature Is Artistically Inferior. In Other Words, All Good Literature Is Now Christmas Literature.

He Who Sleeps In Continual Noise Is Wakened By Silence.

Out Of The Fragrant Heart Of Bloom, The Bobolinks Are Singing; Out Of The Fragrant Heart Of Bloom The Apple-tree Whispers To The Room, "why Art Thou But A Nest Of Gloom While The Bobolinks Are Singing?

It Is The Curse Of Prosperity That It Takes Work Away From Us, And Shuts That Door To Hope And Health Of Spirit.

In Europe Life Is Histrionic And Dramatized, And In America, Except When It Is Trying To Be European, It Is Direct And Sincere.