Mother's Love Grows By Giving.

Cultivate Simplicity, Coleridge.

No One Ever Regarded The First Of January With Indifference. It Is That From Which All Date Their Time, And Count Upon What Is Left. It Is The Nativity Of Our Common Adam.

A Flow'ret Crushed In The Bud, A Nameless Piece Of Babyhood, Was In Her Cradle-coffin Lying; Extinct, With Scarce The Sense Of Dying

To Be Sick Is To Enjoy Monarchical Prerogatives.

A Babe Is Fed With Milk And Praise.