Never Yet Was A Springtime, When The

Books Have Been To Me What Gold Is To The Miser, What New Fields Are To The Explorer.

I Thank You, God, In Heaven, For Friends.

Out Of The Chill And The Shadow, Into The Thrill And The Shine. Out Of The Dearth And The Famine, Into The Fulness Divine.

On The Day Long After Childhood When I Suddenly Heard Of His Death, The Sky Grew Dark Above My Head. I Was Walking On A Southern Highway, And A Friend Driving In A Pony Carriage Passed Me, Stopped And Said, "have You Heard That Charles Dickens Is Dead?" It Was As If I Had Been Robbed Of One Of My Dearest Friends.

Self-complacen Cy Is Fatal To Progress.