I once asked a distinguished artist what place he gave to labor in art. "Labor," he in effect said, "is the beginning, the middle, and the end of art." Turning then to another--"And you," I inquired, "what do you consider as the great force in art?" "Love," he replied. In their two answers I found but one truth.

Winter is the night of vegetation.

Whether one talks well depends very much upon whom he has to talk to.

The worst deluded are the self-deluded.

To cultivate a garden is to walk with God.

Earth took her shining station as a star, In Heaven's dark hall, high up the crowd of worlds.

In politics, merit is rewarded by the possessor being raised, like a target, to a position to be fired at.