Toil Is The True Knight's Pastime.

I Have Fought My Fight, I Have Lived My Life, I Have Drunk My Share Of Wine; From Trier To Coln There Was Never A Knight Led A Merrier Life Than Mine.

Oh! That We Two Were Maying Down The Stream Of The Soft Spring Breeze; Like Children With Violets Playing, In The Shade Of The Whispering Trees.

Nothing Like One Honest Look, One Honest Thought Of Christ Upon His Cross. That Tells Us How Much He Has Been Through, How Much He Endured, How Much He Conquered, How Much God Loved Us, Who Spared Not His Only Begotten Son, But Freely Gave Him For Us. Dare We Doubt Such A God? Dare We Murmur Against Such A God?

There Are More Ways Of Killing A Cat Than Choking It With Cream.

Now, To Tell My Story--if Not As It Ought To Be Told, At Least As I Can Tell It,--i Must Go Back Sixteen Years, To The Days When Whitbury Boasted Of Forty Coaches Per Diem, Instead Of One Railway, And Set Forth How In Its Southern Suburb, There Stood Two Pleasant House Side By Side, With Their Gardens Sloping Down To The Whit, And Parted From Each Other Only By The High Brick Fruit-wall, Through Which There Used To Be A Door Of Communication; For The Two Occupiers Were Fast Friends.