A Lover Would Find Life Less Broken

How Happy Is The Optimist / To Whom Life Shows Its Sunny Side / His Horse May Lose, His Ship May List, / But He Always Sees The Funny Side.

Borrow My Umbrellas, My Clothes, My Money, And I Will Likely Not Think Of Them Again. But Borrow My Books And I Will Be On Your Track Like A Bloodhound Until They Are Returned.

People Are No Longer Sinful, They Are Only Immature Or Underprivileged Or Frightened Or, More Particularly, Sick.

The East Is The Hearthside Of America. Like Any Home, Therefore, It Has The Defects Of Its Virtues. Because It Is A Long-lived-inhouse, It Bursts Its Seams, Is Inconvenient, Needs Constant Refurbishing. And Some Of The Family Resources Have Been Spent. To Attain The Privacy That Grown-up People Find So Desirable, Easterners Live A Harder Life Than People Elsewhere. Today It Is We And Not The Frontiersman Who Must Be Rugged To Survive.

One Applauds The Industry Of Professional Philanthropy. But It Has Its Dangers. After A While The Private Heart Begins To Harden. We Fling Letters Into The Wastebasket, Are Abrupt To Telephoned Solicitations. Charity Withers In The Incessant Gale.