If Ever The Public Was Betrayed By

The Book Which You Read From A Sense Of Duty, Or Because For Any Reason You Must, Does Not Commonly Make Friends With You.

We Are Creatures Of The Moment; We Live From One Little Space To Another, And Only One Interest At A Time Fills These.

Why Art Thou But A Nest Of Gloom While The Bobolinks Are Singing?

The Mortality Of All Inanimate Things Is Terrible To Me, But That Of Books Most Of All.

You'll Find As You Grow Older That You Weren't Born Such A Great While Ago After All. The Time Shortens Up.