You See," She Concluded Miserably, "when I

I Heard Someone Say Once That The Years From Fifteen To Nineteen Are The Best Years In A Girl's Life.

Reading Stories Is Bad Enough But Writing Them Is Worse.

As She Walked Along She Dramatized The Night. There Was About It A Wild, Lawless Charm That Appealed To A Certain Wild, Lawless Strain Hidden Deep In Emily’s Nature—the Strain Of The Gypsy And The Poet, The Genius And The Fool.

There Must Be A Limit To The Mistakes One Person Can Make, And When I Get To The End Of Them, Then I'll Be Through With Them. That's A Comforting Thought

Heretics Are Wicked, But They're Mighty Int'resting. It's Jest That They've Got Sorter Lost Looking For God, Being Under The Impression That He's Hard To Find - Which He Ain't Never.