I Have Learned To Prize The Quiet,

Nature Never Quite Goes Along With Us. She Is Somber At Weddings, Sunny At Funerals, And She Frowns On Ninety-nine Out Of A Hundred Picnics.

To Have To Die Is A Distinction Of Which No Man Is Proud.

Fine Phrases I Value More Than Bank-notes. I Have Ear For No Other Harmony Than The Harmony Of Words. To Be Occasionally Quoted Is The Only Fame I Care For.

The Discovery Of A Grey Hair When You Are Brushing Out Your Whiskers Of A Morning—first Fallen Flake Of The Coming Snows Of Age—is A Disagreeable Thing.... So Are Flying Twinges Of Gout, Shortness Of Breath On The Hill-side, The Fact That Even The Moderate Use Of Your Friend's Wines At Dinner Upsets You. These Things Are Disagreeable Because They Tell You That You Are No Longer Young—that You Have Passed Through Youth, Are Now In Middle Age, And Faring Onward To The Shadows In Which, Somewhere, A Grave Is Hid.

Every Man's Road In Life Is Marked By The Grave Of His Personal Likings.