To fail at all is to fail utterly.

As life runs on, the road grows strange with faces new - and near the end. The milestones into headstones change, Neath every one a friend.

To me it seems not unreasonable to find a re-enforcement of optimism, a renewal of courage and hope, in the modern theory that man has mounted to what he is from the lowest step of potentiality, through toilsome grades of ever-expanding existence, even thought it have been by a spiral stairway, mainly dark or dusty, with loop-holes at long intervals only, and these granting but a narrow and one-sided view.

All thoughts that mold the age begin deep down within the primitive soul.

Life is the jailer, death the angel sent to draw the unwilling bolts and set us free.

No man is born into the world whose work is not born with him. There is always work, and tools to work with, for those who will, and blessed are the horny hands of toil. The busy world shoves angrily aside the man who stands with arms akimbo until occasion tells him what to do; and he who waits to have his task marked out shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled.

Though old the thought and oft exprest, Tis his at last who says it best.