Early Morning Does Not Mince Words.

Beginnings Are Always Messy.

We Are All Familiar With The Argument: Make War Dreadful Enough, And There Will Be No War. And We None Of Us Believe It.

The Young Man Who, At The End Of September, 1924, Dismounted From A Taxicab In South Square, Westminster, Was So Unobtrusively American That His Driver Had Some Hesitation In Asking For Double His Fare. The Young Man Had No Hesitation In Refusing It.

The Beginnings And Endings Of All Human Undertakings Are Untidy, The Building Of A House, The Writing Of A Novel, The Demolition Of A Bridge, And, Eminently, The Finish Of A Voyage.

Love Is Not A Hot-house Flower, But A Wild Plant, Born Of A Wet Night, Born Of An Hour Of Sunshine; Sprung From Wild Seed, Blown Along The Road By A Wild Wind. A Wild Plant That, When It Blooms By Chance Within The Hedge Of Our Gardens, We Call A Flower; And When It Blooms Outside We Call A Weed; But, Flower Or Weed, Whose Scent And Colour Are Always, Wild!