If our hours were all serene, we might probably take almost as little note of them, as the dial does of those that are clouded.

Almost every sect of Christianity is a perversion of its essence, to accommodate it to the prejudices of the world.

And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine.

O God! methinks it were a happy life To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes, how they run-- How many makes the hour full complete, How many hours brings about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live; When this is known, then to divide the times-- So many hours must I tend my flock, So many hours must I take my rest, So many hours must I contemplate, So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young, So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean, So many months ere I shall shear the fleece. So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Passed over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this!

I probably have had to articulate this for our staff more than for almost any other show we've ever done. I think basically because Our Town has been so clearly the property of high schools and other well-meaning bodies of folks who want to make a patriotic statement.

"Horas non numero nisi serenas." There stands in the garden of old St. Mark A sun dial quaint and gray. It takes no heed of the hours which in dark Pass o'er it day by day. It has stood for ages amid the flowers In that land of sky and song. "I number none but the cloudless hours," Its motto the live day long.