Young Blood Must Have Its Course, Lad,

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.

What Is The Commonest, And Yet The Least Remembered Form Of Heroism? The Heroism Of An Average Mother. Ah! When I Think Of That Broad Fact I Gather Hope Again For Poor Humanity, And This Dark World Looks Bright, This Diseased World Looks Wholesome To Me Once More, Because, Whatever Else It Is Or Is Not Full Of, It Is At Least Full Of Mothers.

And No One Has The Right To Say That No Water-babies Exist, Till They Have Seen No Water-babies Existing; Which Is Quite A Different Thing, Mind, From Not Seeing Water-babies; And A Thing Which Nobody Ever Did, Or Perhaps Will Ever Do. But Surely ... They Would Have Put It Into Spirits, Or Into The Illustrated News, Or Perhaps Cut It Into Two Halves, Poor Dear Little Thing, And Sent One To Professor Owen, And One To Professor Huxley, To See What They Would Each Say About It.

We Shall Be Made Truly Wise If We Be Made Content; Content, Too, Not Only With What We Can Understand, But Content With What We Do Not Understand-the Habit Of Mind Which Theologians Call, And Rightly, Faith In God.

There Is A Great Deal Of Human Nature In Man.