Newness Hath An Evanescent Beauty.

Write . . . Write . . . Pencil . . . Paper.

A Lonely Fir-tree Is Standing On A Northern Barren Height; It Sleeps, And The Ice And Snow-drift Cast Round It A Garment Of White.

The Fundamental Evil Of The World Arose From The Fact That The Good Lord Has Not Created Money Enough.

Music Is A Strange Thing. I Would Almost Say It Is A Miracle.

Sweet May Hath Come To Love Us, Flowers, Trees, Their Blossoms Don; And Through The Blue Heavens Above Us The Very Clouds Move On.