Which Of You With Taking Thought Can

No Themes Are So Human As Those That Reflect For Us, Out Of The Confusion Of Life, The Close Connection Of Bliss And Bale, Of The Things That Help With The Things That Hurt, So Dangling Before Us Forever That Bright Hard Medal, Of So Strange An Alloy, One Face Of Which Is Somebody's Right And Ease And The Other Somebody's Pain And Wrong.

Innocent And Infinite Are The Pleasures Of Observation.

The Story Had Held Us, Round The Fire, Sufficiently Breathless, But Except The Obvious Remark That It Was Gruesome, As, On Christmas Eve In An Old House, A Strange Tale Should Essentially Be . . .

Though It Might Have Its Momentary Alarms, Paternity Is Not An Exciting Vocation.

A Tradition Is Kept Alive Only By Something Being Added To It.