The Wit Of A Family Is Usually

Love Has A Way Of Cheating Itself Consciously, Like A Child Who Plays At Solitary Hide-and-seek; It Is Pleased With Assurances That It All The While Disbelieves.

There Was No Gleam, No Shadow, For The Heavens, Too, Were One Still, Pale Cloud; No Sound Or Motion In Anything But The Dark River That Flowed And Moaned Like An Unresting Sorrow.

To An Old Memory Like Mine The Present Days Are But As A Little Water Poured On The Deep.

I Cherish My Childish Loves--the Memory Of That Warm Little Nest Where My Affections Were Fledged.

We Are All Apt To Believe What The World Believes About Us.