You'll Find As You Grow Older That

Christ And The Life Of Christ Is At This Moment Inspiring The Literature Of The World As Never Before, And Raising It Up A Witness Against Waste And Want And War. It May Confess Him, As In Tolstoi's Work It Does, Or It May Deny Him, But It Cannot Exclude Him; And In The Degree That It Ignores His Spirit, Modern Literature Is Artistically Inferior. In Other Words, All Good Literature Is Now Christmas Literature.

You'll Find As You Grow Older That You Weren't Born Such A Great While Ago After All. The Time Shortens Up.

If We Like A Man's Dream, We Call Him A Reformer; If We Don't Like His Dream, We Call Him A Crank.

The Swelling And Towering Omnibuses, The Huge Trucks And Wagons And Carriages, The Impetuous Hansoms And The More Sobered Four-wheelers, The Pony-carts, Donkey-carts, Hand-carts, And Bicycles Which Fearlessly Find Their Way Amidst The Turmoil, With Foot-passengers Winding In And Out, And Covering The Sidewalks With Their Multitude, Give The Effect Of A Single Monstrous Organism, Which Writhes Swiftly Along The Channel Where It Had Run In The Figure Of A Flood Till You Were Tired Of That Metaphor. You Are Now A Molecule Of That Vast Organism.

Lord, For The Erring Thoughtnot Into Evil Wrought:lord, For The Wicked Willbetrayed And Baffled Still:for The Heart From Itself Kept,our Thanksgiving Accept.