It Was The Worst Hurt He Had

Having No New Companions, Nothing Remained For Him But To Read.

But Especially He Loved To Run In The Dim Twilight Of The Summer Midnights, Listening To The Subdued And Sleepy Murmurs Of The Forest, Reading Signs And Sounds As A Man May Read A Book, And Seeking For The Mysterious Something That Called -- Called, Waking Or Sleeping, At All Times, For Him To Come.

Age Is Never So Old As Youth Would Measure It.

I Am First Of All A White Man, And Only Then A Socialist.

The Pitch To Which He Was Aroused Was Tremendous. All The Fighting Blood Of His Breed Was Up In Him And Surging Through Him. This Was Living., Though He Did Not Know It. He Was Realizing His Own Meaning In The World; He Was Doing That For Which He Was Made.... He Was Justifying His Existence, Than Which Life Can Do No Greater; For Life Achieves Its Summit When It Does To The Uttermost That Which It Was Equipped To Do.