How Awful To Reflect That What People

Eat With The Rich, But Go To The Play With The Poor, Who Are Capable Of Joy.

What Things There Are To Write, If One Could Only Write Them! My Mind Is Full Of Gleaming Thought; Gay Moods And Mysterious, Moth-like Meditations Hover In My Imagination, Fanning Their Painted Wings. But Always The Rarest, Those Streaked With Azure And The Deepest Crimson, Flutter Away Beyond My Reach.

How It Infuriates A Bigot, When He Is Forced To Drag Out His Dark Convictions!

The Word Snob Belongs To The Sour-grape Vocabulary.

Our Names Are Labels, Plainly Printed On The Bottled Essence Of Our Past Behavior.