The Natural Term Of An Apple-pie Is

A Library Is But The Soul's Burial Ground; It Is The Land Of Shadows. Yet One Is Impressed With The Thought, The Labor, And The Struggle, Represented In This Vast Catacomb Of Books. Who Could Dream, By The Placid Waters That Issue From The Level Mouths Of Brooks Into The Lake, All The Plunges, The Whirls, The Divisions, And Foaming Rushes That Had Brought Them Down To The Tranquil Exit? And Who Can Guess Through What Channels Of Disturbance, And Experiences Of Sorrow, The Heart Passed That Has Emptied Into This Dead Sea Of Books?

We Are Apt To Believe In Providence So Long As We Have Our Own Way; But If Things Go Awry, Then We Think, If There Is A God, He Is In Heaven, And Not On Earth.

Thou, Everlasting Strength, Hast Set Thyself Forth To Bear Our Burdens. May We Bear Thy Cross, And Bearing That; Find There Is Nothing Else To Bear; And Touching That Cross, Find That Instead Of Taking Away Our Strength, It Adds Thereto. Give Us Faith For Darkness, For Trouble, For Sorrow, For Bereavement, For Disappointment; Give Us A Faith That Will Abide Though The Earth Itself Should Pass Away--a Faith For Living, A Faith For Dying.

Conceited Men Often Seem A Harmless Kind Of Men, Who, By An Overweening Self-respect, Relieve Others From The Duty Of Respecting Them At All.

The Babe At First Feeds Upon The Mother's Bosom, But It Is Always On Her Heart.