Little Other Than A Red Tape Talking-machine,

Friendship, In The Old Heroic Sense Of That Term, No Longer Exists. It Is In Reality No Longer Expected Or Recognized As A Virtue Among Men.

Acorns Are Planted Silently By Some Unnoticed Breeze.

A Man Cannot Make A Pair Of Shoes Rightly Unless He Do It In A Devout Manner.

The Work An Unknown Good Man Has Done Is Like A Vein Of Water Flowing Hidden Underground, Secretly Making The Ground Green.

Evil, Once Manfully Fronted, Ceases To Be Evil; There Is Generous Battle-hope In Place Of Dead, Passive Misery; The Evil Itself Has Become A Kind Of Good.