When The Old Creeds Are Threadbare, And

There Is Not A Heart But Has Its Moments Of Longing, Yearning For Something Better; Nobler; Holier Than It Knows Now.

Death Is The Dropping Of The Flower, That The Fruit May Swell.

At The Bottom Of Every Leaf-stem Is A Cradle, And In It Is An Infant Germ; The Winds Will Rock It, The Birds Will Sing To It All Summer Long, But The Next Season It Will Unfold And Go Alone.

A Gamester, As Such, Is The Cool, Calculating, Essential Spirit Of Concentrated, Avaricious Selfishness.

The Natural Term Of An Apple-pie Is But Twelve Hours. It Reaches Its Highest State About One Hour After It Comes From The Oven, And Just Before Its Natural Heat Has Quite Departed. But Every Hour Afterward Is A Declension. And After It Is One Day Old, It Is Thence-forward But The Ghastly Corpse Of Apple-pie.