Pride's Chickens Have Bonny Feathers, But They

I Would Rather Be Remembered By A Song Than By A Victory.

Sweet April's Tears, Dead On The Hem Of May.

Happiness Never Lays Its Finger On Its Pulse. If We Attempt To Steal A Glimpse Of Its Features It Disappears.

A Man Gazing At The Stars Is Proverbially At The Mercy Of The Puddles In The Road.

Men And Women Make Their Own Beauty Or Their Own Ugliness. Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton Speaks In One Of His Novels Of A Man "who Was Uglier Than He Had Any Business To Be;" And, If We Could But Read It, Every Human Being Carries His Life In His Face, And Is Good-looking Or The Reverse As That Life Has Been Good Or Evil. On Our Features The Fine Chisels Of Thought And Emotion Are Eternally At Work.