When Folks Find I Ain't Afeard To

The Delicate Thought, That Cannot Find Expression, For Ruder Speech Too Fair, That, Like Thy Petals, Trembles In Possession, And Scatters On The Air.

One Big Vice In A Man Is Apt To Keep Out A Great Many Smaller Ones.

Never A Lip Is Curved With Pain That Can't Be Kissed Into Smiles Again.

It Would Seem Evident, Therefore, That The Secret Of The American Short Story Was The Treatment Of Characteristic American Life, With Absolute Knowledge Of Its Peculiarities And Sympathy With Its Method.

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.