Experience Is The Mother Of Custom.

A Man Who Does Not Love Praise Is Not A Full Man.

We Have The Promises Of God As Thick As Daisies In Summer Meadows, That Death, Which Men Most Fear, Shall Be To Us The Most Blessed Of Experiences, If We Trust In Him. Death Is Unclasping; Joy, Breaking Out In The Desert; The Heart, Come To Its Blossoming Time! Do We Call It Dying When The Bud Bursts Into Flower?

Socially We Are Woven Into The Fabric Of Society, Where Every Man Is Like One Thread In A Piece Of Cloth. No Single Thread Has A Right To Say, "i Will Stay Here No Longer," And Draw Out. No Man Has A Right To Make A Hole In The Well-woven Fabric Of Society.

Love, In This World, Is Like A Seed Taken From The Tropics, And Planted Where The Winter Comes Too Soon; And It Cannot Spread Itself In Flower-clusters And Wide-twining Vines, So That The Whole Air Is Filled With The Perfume Thereof. But There Is To Be Another Summer For It Yet. Care For The Root Now, And God Will Care For The Top By And By.

Some Have Supposed That The Mosquito Is Of A Devout Turn, And Never Will Partake Of A Meal Without First Saying Grace. The Devotions Of Some Men Are But A Preface To Blood-sucking.