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The pattern of a newspaperman's life is like the plot of 'Black Beauty.' Sometimes he finds a kind master who gives him a dry stall and an occasional bran mash in the form of a Christmas bonus, sometimes he falls into the hands of a mean owner who drives him in spite of spavins and expects him to live on potato peelings.
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Only in souls the Christ is brought to birth, And there He lives and dies.
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God bless you and utterly satisfy your heart...with Himself.
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People have nannies and big cars, and they want to go to Maui for Christmas. When there are those kind of stakes involved, people get ruthless.
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I'm going to take the kids away over Christmas but I don't, I've written 14 musicals now, I don't want to rush into doing something just for the sake of doing it. I want to do it when I find a story.
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You know what shows today are missing? Stars.
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Words are freeborn, and not the vassals of the gruff tyrants of prose to do their bidding only. They have the same right to dance and sing as the dewdrops have to sparkle and the stars to shine.
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Fling out, fling out, with cheer and shout, To all the winds of Our Country's Banner! Be every bar, and every star, Displayed in full and glorious manner! Blow, zephyrs, blow, keep the dear ensign flying! Blow, zephyrs, sweetly mournful, sighing, sighing, sighing!
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We can never sneer at the stars, mock the dawn, or scoff at the totality of being.
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Nobody ever forgets their first night in the bush. It's among the precious, meagre handful of life firsts that remain indelible.
