A Baby Was Sleeping, Its Mother Was

Where's The Snow That Fell The Year That's Fled--where's The Snow?

When Once The Itch Of Literature Comes Over A Man, Nothing Can Cure It But The Scratching Of A Pen. But If You Have Not A Pen, I Suppose You Must Scratch Any Way You Can.

The Neck On Which Diamonds Might Have Worthily Sparkled, Will Look Less Tempting When The Biting Winter Has Hung Icicles There For Gems.

I'll Seek A Four Leaved Shamrock In All Thy Fairy Dells, And If I Find The Charmed Leaves, Oh, How I'll Weave My Spells!

A Baby Was Sleeping, Its Mother Was Weeping.