Never A Lip Is Curved With Pain

The Only Sure Thing About Luck Is That It Will Change.

Each Lost Day Has Its Patron Saint!

Nobody Shoulders A Rifle In Defense Of A Boarding House.

But Still When The Mists Of Doubt Prevail, And We Lie Becalmed By The Shores Of Age, We Hear From The Misty Troubled Shore The Voce Of Children Gone Before. Drawing The Soul To Its Anchorage.

Hark! I Hear The Tramp Of Thousands, And Of Armèd Men The Hum; Lo, A Nation's Hosts Have Gathered Round The Quick Alarming Drum Saying, Come, Freemen, Come! Ere Your Heritage Be Wasted, Said The Quick Alarming Drum.