Lord, For The Erring Thoughtnot Into Evil

Christ And The Life Of Christ Is At This Moment Inspiring The Literature Of The World As Never Before, And Raising It Up A Witness Against Waste And Want And War. It May Confess Him, As In Tolstoi's Work It Does, Or It May Deny Him, But It Cannot Exclude Him; And In The Degree That It Ignores His Spirit, Modern Literature Is Artistically Inferior. In Other Words, All Good Literature Is Now Christmas Literature.

We Are Creatures Of The Moment; We Live From One Little Space To Another, And Only One Interest At A Time Fills These.

I Know, Indeed, Of Nothing More Subtly Satisfying And Cheering Than A Knowledge Of The Real Good Will And Appreciation Of Others. Such Happiness Does Not Come With Money, Nor Does It Flow From Fine Physical State. It Cannot Be Brought. But It Is The Keenest Joy, After All; And The Toiler's Truest And Best Reward.

Inequality Is As Dear To The American Heart As Liberty Itself.

It Is The Still, Small Voice That The Soul Heeds, Not The Deafening Blasts Of Doom.