At Christmas-tide The Open Hand Scatters Its

Theres Nothing Half So Pleasant As Coming Home Again.

On The Day Long After Childhood When I Suddenly Heard Of His Death, The Sky Grew Dark Above My Head. I Was Walking On A Southern Highway, And A Friend Driving In A Pony Carriage Passed Me, Stopped And Said, "have You Heard That Charles Dickens Is Dead?" It Was As If I Had Been Robbed Of One Of My Dearest Friends.

Creative Genius Is A Divinely Bestowed Gift Which Is The Coronation Of The Few.

... Love Is Heaven And Claims Its Own.

My Own Opinion Is That Youthfulness Of Feeling Is Retained, As Is Youthfulness Of Appearance, By Constant Use Of The Intellect.