But Winter Has Yet Brighter Scenes-he Boasts

All That Tread, The Globe Are But A Handful To The Tribes, That Slumber In Its Bosom.

All Great Poets Have Been Men Of Great Knowledge.

The Sweet Calm Sunshine Of October, Now Warms The Low Spot; Upon Its Grassy Mold The Pur0ple Oak-leaf Falls; The Birchen Bough Drops Its Bright Spoil Like Arrow-heads Of Gold.

The Stormy March Has Come At Last, With Winds And Clouds And Changing Skies; I Hear The Rushing Of The Blast That Through The Snowy Valley Flies.

It Is Said To Be The Manner Of Hypochondriacs To Change Often Their Physician.