A Contented Spirit Is The Sweetness Of

The Sun Himself Is Weak When He First Rises, And Gathers Strength And Courage As The Day Gets On.

It Was A Cold Hard Easterly Morning When He Latched The Garden Gate And Turned Away. The Light Snowfall Which Had Feathered His Schoolroom Windows On The Thursday, Still Lingered In The Air, And Was Falling White, While The Wind Blew Black.

The Air Came Laden With The Fragrance It Caught Upon Its Way, And The Bees, Upborne Upon Its Scented Breath, Hummed Forth Their Drowsy Satisfaction As They Floated By.

There Are Many Pleasant Fictions Of The Law In Constant Operation, But There Is Not One So Pleasant Or Practically Humorous As That Which Supposes Every Man To Be Of Equal Value In Its Impartial Eye, And The Benefits Of All Laws To Be Equally Attainable By All Men, Without The Smallest Reference To The Furniture Of Their Pockets.

They Whirled Past The Dark Trees, As Feathers Would Be Swept Before A Hurricane. Houses, Gates, Churches, Hay-stacks, Objects Of Every Kind They Shot By, With A Velocity And Noise Like Roaring Waters Suddenly Let Loose. Still The Noise Of Pursuit Grew Louder, And Still My Uncle Could Hear The Young Lady Wildly Screaming, "faster! Faster!"