Every Man Is Full Of Music; But

There Is An Equator That Runs Just Under The Nose: All That Live Below The Equator Are Animals; All That Live Above It Are Men.

It Is The Triumph Of Civilization That At Last Communities Have Obtained Such A Mastery Over Natural Laws That They Drive And Control Them. The Winds, The Water, Electricity, All Aliens That In Their Wild Form Were Dangerous, Are Now Controlled By Human Will, And Are Made Useful Servants.

It Is Not Work That Kills Men; It Is Worry. Work Is Healthy; You Can Hard Put More Upon A Man Than He Can Bear. Worry Is Rust Upon The Blade. It Is Not The Revolution That Destroys The Machinery, But The Friction.

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.

Some Men Think That The Globe Is A Sponge That God Puts Into Their Hands To Squeeze For Their Own Garden Or Flower-pot.