No one should form an acquaintance with one who has an evil character. A piece of coal, if it is hot burns, and if it's cold, blackens the hands.
But what Kezia liked more than anything, what she liked frightfully, was the lamp. It stood in the middle of the dining-room table, an exquisite little amber lamp with a white globe. It was filled all ready for lighting, though, of course, you couldn't light it. But there was something inside that looked like oil and moved when you shook it. The father and mother dolls, who sprawled very stiff as though they had fainted in the drawing-room, and their two little children asleep upstairs, were really too big for the doll's house. They didn't look as though they belonged. But the lamp was perfect. It seemed to smile at Kezia, to say, 'I live here.' The lamp was real.
I think music is the greatest art form that exists, and I think people listen to music for different reasons, and it serves different purposes. Some of it is background music, and some of it is things that might affect a person's day, if not their life, or change an attitude. The best songs are the ones that make you feel something.
A mother's love is like an island In life's ocean vast and wide,A peaceful, quiet shelterFrom the restless, rising tide. A mother's love is like a fortressAnd we seek protection thereWhen the waves of tribulationSeem to drown us in despair. A mother's love is a sanctuaryWhere our soul can find sweet restFrom the struggle and the tensionOf life's fast and futile quest. A mother's love is like a towerRising far above the crowd,And her smile is like the sunshineBreaking through a threatening cloud. A mother's love is like a beaconBurning bright with Faith and PrayerAnd through the changing scenes of lifeWe can find a haven there.... For a mother's love is fashionedAfter God's enduring love,It is endless and unfailingLike the love of Him above. For God knew in His great wisdomThat he couldn't be everywhere,So he put His little ChildrenIn a loving mother's care.
One can write out of love or hate. Hate tells one a great deal about a person. Love makes one become the person. Love, contrary to legend, is not half as blind, at least for writing purposes, as hate. Love can see the evil and not cease to be love. Hate cannot see the good and remain hate. The writer, writing out of hatred, will, thus, paint a far more partial picture than if he had written out of love.