Beauty Crowds Me Till I Die.

That Short, Potential Stir That Each Can Make But Once, That Bustle So Illustrious Tis Almost Consequence, Is The Eclat Of Death.

The Lovely Flowers Embarrass Me. They Make Me Regret I Am Not A Bee.

I Miss The Grasshoppers Much, But Suppose It Is All For The Best. I Should Become Too Much Attached To A Trotting World.

The Past Is Such A Curious Creature To Look Her In The Face A Transport May Receipt Us Or A Disgrace-.

Our Little Kinsmen After Rain In Plenty May Be Seen, A Pink And Pulpy Multitude The Tepid Ground Upon; A Needless Life If Seemed To Me Until A Little Bird As To A Hospitality Advanced And Breakfasted.