If You Once Understand An Author's Character,

Midnight! The Outpost Of Advancing Day! The Frontier Town And Citadel Of Night!

Under The Spreading Chestnut Tree The Village Smithy Stands; The Smith, A Mighty Man Is He, With Large And Sinewy Hands; And The Muscles Of His Brawny Arms Are Strong As Iron Bands. . . . He Earns Whate'er He Can, And Looks The Whole World In The Face, For He Owes Not Any Man. . . . Toiling,-rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward Through Life He Goes; Each Morning Sees Some Task Begin, Each Evening Sees It Close; Something Attempted, Something Done, Has Earned A Night's Repose.

Music Is The Language Spoken By Angels.

It Was A High Counsel That I Once Heard Given To A Young Person, - Always Do What You Are Afraid To Do.

Does Not All The Blood Within Me Leap To Meet Thee, Leap To Meet Thee, As The Springs To Meet The Sunshine.