We Have Been Cocksure Of Many Things

The Only Condition Of Peace In This World Is To Have No Ideas, Or, At Least Not To Express Them.

War? War Is An Organized Bore.

You Hear That Boy Laughing?you Think He's All Fun; But The Angels Laugh, Too, At The Good He Has Done; The Children Laugh Loud As They Troop To His Call, And The Poor Man That Knows Him Laughs Loudest Of All.

Fate Tried To Conceal Him By Naming Him Smith.

These Are The Hands Whose Sturdy Labor Brings The Peasant's Food, The Golden Pomp Of Kings; This Is The Page Whose Letters Shall Be Seen, Changed By The Sun To Words Of Living Green; This Is The Scholar Whose Immortal Penspells The First Lesson Hunger Taught To Men; These Are The Lines That Heaven-commanded Toil Shows On His Deed, - The Charter Of The Soil!