The great and mighty river flows silently and calmly above the large boulders hidden far below the surface.
The women of this sentimental class are those that read and write verses upon "tiny graves," "dainty coffins," and "baby shrouds." The other day a friend shuddered audibly over the poem, admired by many, entitled--"The Little White Hearse." "Just listen," she exclaimed, "to this last verse! After describing the grief of the mother whose baby has just ridden to what she calls 'its long, lasting sleep,' she further harrows up the feelings by winding up with:-- "'I know not her name, but her sorrow I know-- While I paused on that crossing I lived it once more.
And back to my heart surged that river of woe That but in the heart of a mother can flow-- For the little white hearse has been, too, at my door.' "How could she write it?
How could she bring herself to put that down in black and white with the memory of the baby she has lost, in her mind ?" "My dear," quietly answered a deep-natured, practical woman,--"either the author of that poem is incapable of such suffering as some mothers endure, or the little white hearse has never stopped at her door.

If it had, she could not have written the poem." She who "talks out" her pain is not the one who is killed by it.

A peculiarity of hopeless cases of cancer is that the sufferer therefrom has a dread of mentioning the horror that is eating away her life.
Since, then, imaginary woe is a species of self-indulgence, let us stamp that healthful person who gives way to it as either grossly selfish or foolishly affected.

Illness is the only excuse for such weakness, and even then will-power may do much toward chasing away the blue devils.
Some people find it harder than others to be uniformly cheerful.

While one man is, as the saying is, "born happy," another inherits a tendency to look upon the sombre aspect of every matter presented to him.