Conceit Is The Finest Armour A Man

Seek Out Some Retired And Old-world Spot, Far From The Madding Crowd, And Dream Away A Sunny Week Among Its Drowsy Lanes - Some Half-forgotten Nook, Hidden Away By The Fairies, Out Of Reach Of The Noisy World - Some Quaint-perched Eyrie On The Cliffs Of Time, From Whence The Surging Waves Of The Nineteenth Century Would Sound Far-off And Faint.

We Are So Bound Together That No Man Can Labor For Himself Alone. Each Blow He Strikes In His Own Behalf Helps To Mold The Universe.

So, Eventually, He Made One Final Arrangement With Himself, Which He Has Religiously Held To Ever Since, And That Was To Count Each Fish That He Caught As Ten, And To Assume Ten To Begin With. For Example, If He Did Not Catch Any Fish At All, Then He Said He Had Caught Ten Fish - You Could Never Catch Less Than Ten Fish By His System; That Was The Foundation Of It. Then, If By Any Chance He Really Did Catch One Fish, He Called It Twenty, While Two Fish Would Count Thirty, Three Forty, And So On.

A Boy's Muscles Move Quicker Than His Thoughts.

(speaking Of The Cistercian Monks) A Grim Fraternity, Passing Grim Lives In That Sweet Spot, That God Had Made So Bright! Strange That Nature's Voices All Around Them--the Soft Singing Of The Waters, The Wisperings Of The River Grass, The Music Of The Rushing Wind--should Not Have Taught Them A Truer Meaning Of Life Than This. They Listened There, Through The Long Days, In Silence, Waiting For A Voice From Heaven; And All Day Long And Through The Solemn Night It Spoke To Them In Myriad Tones, And They Heard It Not.