Death tugs at my ear and says, 'Live. I am coming.

Trouble makes us one with every human being in the world - and unless we touch others, we're out of touch with life.

See how he throws his baited lines about,/And plays his men as anglers play their trout.

The Indian is but a sketch in red crayon of a rudimental manhood. To the problem of his relation to the white race, there is one solution: extermination.

You may have genius. The contrary is, of course, probable.

Do not be bullied out of your common sense by the specialist; two to one, he is a pedant.

For nothing burns with such amazing speed, As the dry sticks of a religious creed.