You Walk Into A Room, See A

To The Untraveled, Territory Other Than Their Own Familiar Heath Is Invariably Fascinating. Next To Love It Is The One Thing That Solaces And Delights.

We Who Feel That Justice Is Not Being Done Have But One Thing To Do: That Is Fight, By Argument, By Example, By Insistence On Fair Play Wherever We Have The Power To Do So. The Rest Is In The Hands Of The Lord, Or Nature, Which Swings, Apparently, From One Extreme To Another.

When A Girl Leaves Her Home At Eighteen, She Does One Of Two Things. Either She Falls Into Saving Hands And Becomes Better, Or She Rapidly Assumes The Cosmopolitan Standard Of Virtue And Becomes Worse

Art Is The Stored Honey Of The Human Soul, Gathered On Wings Of Misery And Travail.

A Real Flame Of Love Is A Subtle Thing. It Burns As A Will-o'-the-wisp, Dancing Onward To Fairy Lands Of Delight. It Roars As A Furnace. Too Often Jealousy Is The Quality Upon Which It Feeds.