A Lean Sorrow Is Hardest To Bear.

The Old Poets Little Knew What Comfort They Could Be To A Man.

This Was One Of Those Perfect New England Days In Late Summer Where The Spirit Of Autumn Takes A First Stealing Flight, Like A Spy, Through The Ripening Country-side, And, With Feigned Sympathy For Those Who Droop With August Heat, Puts Her Cool Cloak Of Bracing Air About Leaf And Flower And Human Shoulders.

You Must Find Your Own Quiet Center Of Life, And Write From That To The World.

In These Days The Young Folks Is All Copy-cats, 'fraid To Death They Won't Be All Just Alike; As For The Old Folks, They Pray For The Advantage O' Bein' A Little Different.

Do Not Hurry Too Fast In These Early Winter Days, - A Quiet Hour Is Worth More To You Than Anything You Can Do In It.