NO MAN is more constantly unhappy, or makes others more so, than the impatient man. He is out of harmony with things; and all things fight and worry and wound him. He feels himself dishonored, too, by his impatience; and he does lose, so far as he indulges it, the true dignity of life. He is not cast, indeed, like the victim of sensual vice, into the slough of dishonor; his garment perhaps is not soiled, but it is burned thru in a thousand spots by the ever-dripping little sparks of petulance; and it is in tatters and disorder with the ever-crossing flurries of angry passion; and he seems to himself and to others as one who scrambles thru life, rather than as one who walks in the calm and dignified robe of conscious self-possession. Constant fretting and fault-finding and breaking out into sarcasm and anger may bereave a house of all honor, peace, and comfort, almost as effectually as gluttony and drunkenness. Or suppose that the fretful temper be hidden and smothered in the heart, then it wastes and consumes the springs of the inmost life.—Orville Dewey.