Anger Is A Bow That Will Shoot

The Blossom Cannot Tell What Becomes Of Its Odor, And No Person Can Tell What Becomes Of His Or Her Influence And Example.

Mirth Is God's Medicine. Everybody Ought To Bathe In It. Grim Care, Moroseness, Anxiety,--all This Rust Of Life, Ought To Be Scoured Off By The Oil Of Mirth. It Is Better Than Emery. Every Man Ought To Rub Himself With It. A Man Without Mirth Is Like A Wagon Without Springs, In Which One Is Caused Disagreeably To Jolt By Every Pebble Over Which It Runs.

The Tree Is But A Huge Boquet.

Loving Is Like Music. Some Instruments Can Go Up Two Octaves, Some Four, And Some All The Way From Black Thunder To Sharp Lightning. As Some Of Them Are Susceptible Only Of Melody, So Some Hearts Can Sing But One Song Of Love, While Others Will Fun In A Full Choral Harmony.

Theology Is But Our Ideas Of Truth Classified And Arranged.