No One Thinks Of Winter When The

We Never Pay Anyone Dane-geld, No Matter How Trifling The Cost; For The End Of That Game Is Oppression And Shame, And The Nation That Plays It Is Lost!

At Two O'clock In The Morning, If You Open Your Window And Listen, You Will Hear The Feet Of The Wind That Is Going To Call The Sun. And The Trees In The Shadow Rustle And The Trees In The Moonlight Glisten, And Though It Is Deep, Dark Night, You Feel That The Night Is Done.

Literature Is A Splendid Mistress, But A Bad Wife.

All Good People Agree, And All Good People Say, All Nice People, Like Us, Are We And Every One Else Is They: But If You Cross Over The Sea, Instead Of Over The Way, You May End By (think Of It!) Looking On We As Only A Sort Of They!

If Any Question Why We Died Tell Them Because Our Father's Lied.