Ignorance Is The Womb Of Monsters.

One Might As Well Attempt To Calculate Mathematically The Contingent Forms Of The Tinkling Bits Of Glass In A Kaleidoscope As To Look Through The Tube Of The Future And Foretell Its Pattern.

There Is A Patience That Cackles. There Are A Great Many Virtues That Are Hen-like. They Are Virtue, To Be Sure; But Everybody In The Neighborhood Has To Know About Them.

The Sun Does Not Shine For A Few Trees, And Flowers, But For The Wide World's Joy. The Lonely Pine On The Mountain-top Waves Its Sombre Boughs And Cries, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Little Meadow Violet Lifts Its Cup Of Blue, And Whispers With Its Perfumed Breath, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Grain In A Thousand Fields Rustles In The Wind, And Makes Answer, 'thou Art My Sun.' So God Sits Effulgent In Heaven, Not For A Favored Few, But For The Universe Of Life; And There Is No Creature So Poor Or So Low That He May Not Look Up With Childish Confidence And Say, 'my Father, Thou Art Mine.

Conscience Is The Frame Of Character, And Love Is The Covering For It.

When A Church Is Faithless To Its Duties, The Real Church Is Outside Its Walls, In The Community.