Life As We Call It, Is Nothing

And If I Should Live To Be The Last Leaf Upon The Tree In The Spring, Let Them Smile, As I Do Now, At The Old Forsaken Bough Where I Cling.

Every Event That A Man Would Master Must Be Mounted On The Run, And No Man Ever Caught The Reins Of A Thought Except As It Galloped Past Him.

To Reach A Port We Must Sail, Sometimes With The Wind, And Sometimes Against It. But We Must Not Drift Or Lie At Anchor.

The Indian Is But A Sketch In Red Crayon Of A Rudimental Manhood. To The Problem Of His Relation To The White Race, There Is One Solution: Extermination.

Nothing Is So Common-place As To Wish To Be Remarkable.