All Words Are Pegs To Hang Ideas

Books Are Not Men And Yet They Stay Alive.

We Pray For Those Who Have Ceased To Pray. We Pray For Those That Need Prayer More Than Ever, That Have Fewer And Fewer Seasons Even Of Thought, That Grow Hard With Years, That Are Less And Less Troubled By Sin, And That Are More And More Irreverent Of Religion. We Pray For The Children Of Christian Parents Who Sometimes Weep At The Memory Of Father And Mother, But Who Never Have Thought Of God.

Mountains Of Gold Would Not Seduce Some Men, Yet Flattery Would Break Them Down.

What Profusion Is There In His Work! When Trees Blossom There Is Not A Single Breastpin, But A Whole Bosom Full Of Gems; And Of Leaves They Have So Many Suits That They Can Throw Them Away To The Winds All Summer Long. What Unnumbered Cathedrals Has He Reared In The Forest Shades, Vast And Grand, Full Of Curious Carvings, And Haunted Evermore By Tremulous Music; And In The Heavens Above, How Do Stars Seem To Have Flown Out Of His Hand Faster Than Sparks Out Of A Mighty Forge!

There Is No Friendship, No Love, Like That Of The Parent For The Child.