Bring In The Bottled Lightning, A Clean

Lord, Keep My Memory Green.

We All Draw A Little And Compose A Little, And None Of Us Have Any Idea Of Time Or Money.

The Haggard Aspect Of The Little Old Man Was Wonderfully Suited To The Place; He Might Have Groped Among Old Churches And Tombs And Deserted Houses And Gathered All The Spoils With His Own Hands. There Was Nothing In The Whole Collection But Was In Keeping With Himself Nothing That Looked Older Or More Worn Than He.

The Wide Stare Stared Itself Out For One While; The Sun Went Down In A Red, Green, Golden Glory; The Stars Came Out In The Heavens, And The Fire-flies Mimicked Them In The Lower Air, As Men May Feebly Imitate The Goodness Of A Better Order Of Beings; The Long Dusty Roads And The Interminable Plains Were In Repose-and So Deep A Hush Was On The Sea, That It Scarcely Whispered Of The Time When It Shall Give Up Its Dead.

There Was A Gay Fiction Among Us That We Were Constantly Enjoying Ourselves, And A Skeleton Truth That We Never Did. To The Best Of My Belief, Our Case Was In The Last Respect A Rather Common One.