Duty Is The Demand Of The Hour.

Care Is Taken That Trees Do Not Grow Into The Sky.

He Is Dead In This World Who Has No Belief In Another.

The Deed Is Everything, The Glory Is Naught.

Rash Combat Oft Immortalizes Man; If He Should Fall, He Is Renowned In Song; But After-ages Reckon Not The Ceaseless Tears Which The Forsaken Woman Sheds. Poets Tell Us Not Of The Many Nights Consumed In Weeping, Or Of The Dreary Days Wherein Her Anguished Soul Vainly Yearns To Call Her Loved One Back.

And I Like Those Authors Best Whose Scenes Describe My Own Situation In Life-- And The Friends Who Are About Me Whose Stories Touch Me With Interest, From Resembling My Own Homely Existence.