People of one idea get so deucedly narrow and tame, I've no patience with them.

Culture is the thing, and the sort one gets by ranging over a wide field is the easiest to acquire, the handiest to have, and the most successful in the end.

At any rate, it is the kind I like and the only kind I intend to bother myself about." With this declaration, Charlie smoothed his brow, clasped his hands over his head, and, leaning back, gently warbled the chorus of a college song as if it expressed his views of life better than he could: "While our rosy fillets shed Blushes o'er each fervid head, With many a cup and many a smile The festal moments we beguile." "Some of my saints here were people of one idea, and though they were not very successful from a worldly point of view while alive, they were loved and canonized when dead," said Rose, who had been turning over a pile of photographs on the table and just then found her favorite, St.
Francis, among them.
"This is more to my taste.

Those worn-out, cadaverous fellows give me the blues, but here's a gentlemanly saint who takes things easy and does good as he goes along without howling over his own sins or making other people miserable by telling them of theirs." And Charlie laid a handsome St.Martin beside the brown-frocked monk.
Rose looked at both and understood why her cousin preferred the soldierly figure with the sword to the ascetic with his crucifix.

One was riding bravely through the world in purple and fine linen, with horse and hound and squires at his back; and the other was in a lazar-house, praying over the dead and dying.