Autumn, The Year's Last, Loveliest Smile.

Glorious Are The Woods In Their Latest Gold And Crimson.

Look On This Beautiful World, And Read The Truth In Her Fair Page.

Do Not The Bright June Roses Blow To Meet Thy Kiss At Morning Hours?

Music Is Not Merely A Study, It Is An Entertainment; Wherever There Is Music There Is A Throng Of Listeners.

On My Cornice Linger The Ripe Black Grapes Ungathered; Children Fill The Groves With The Echoes Of Their Glee, Gathering Tawny Chestnuts, And Shouting When Beside Them Drops The Heavy Fruit Of The Tall Black-walnut Tree.