Ah, Miss Harriet, It Would Do Us

Spring Flew Swiftly By, And Summer Came; And If The Village Had Been Beautiful At First, It Was Now In The Full Glow And Luxuriance Of Its Richness. The Great Trees, Which Had Looked Shrunken And Bare In The Earlier Months, Had Now Burst Into Strong Life And Health; And Stretching Forth Their Green Arms Over The Thirsty Ground, Converted Open And Naked Spots Into Choice Nooks, Where Was A Deep And Pleasant Shade From Which To Look Upon The Wide Prospect, Steeped In Sunshine, Which Lay Stretched Out Beyond.

Any Man May Be In Good Spirits And Good Temper When He's Well Dressed. There Ain't Much Credit In That.

It Was One Of Those Hot, Silent Nights, When People Sit At Windows Listening For The Thunder Which They Know Will Shortly Break; When They Recall Dismal Tales Of Hurricanes And Earthquakes; And Of Lonely Travellers On Open Plains, And Lonely Ships At Sea, Struck By Lightning.

The Talker Has Found A Hearer But Not A Listener; And Though He May Talk His Very Best For His Own Sake, You Will Find That His Mental Movements Are Erratic: They Have No Fixed Centre And No Definite Object. His Talk Is Like The Water Of A Canal Whose Banks Have Given Way, Which Rolls Aimlessly Hither And Thither, Without Fulfilling Any Useful Function, Though It Is The Same Water Which Was So Helpful And Serviceable, When It Was Confined Within Clearly Marked Limits By The Restraining Force Of Its Earthy Boundaries.

Nature Gives To Every Time And Season Some Beauties Of Its Own.