Oh, I Am Very Weary, Though Tears

The Bud, Though Plucked, Would Not Be Withered, Only Transplanted To A Fitter Soil To Ripen And Blow Beneath A Brighter Sun; And Though I Might Not Cherish And Watch My Child's Unfolding Intellect, He Would Be Snatched Away From All The Suffering And Sins Of Earth; And My Understanding Tells Me This Would Be No Great Evil; But My Heart Shrinks From The Contemplation Of Such A Possibility, And Whispers I Could Not Bear To See Him Die.

What The World Stigmatizes As Romantic Is Often More Nearly Allied To The Truth Than Is Commonly Supposed.

No, Thank You, I Don't Mind The Rain,' I Said. I Always Lacked Common Sense When Taken By Surprise.

You May Think It All Very Fine, Mr. Huntingdon, To Amuse Yourself With Rousing My Jealousy; But Take Care You Don't Rouse My Hate Instead. And When You Have Once Extinguished My Love, You Will Find It No Easy Matter To Kindle It Again.

A Little Girl Loves Her Bird--why? Because It Lives And Feels; Because It Is Helpless And Harmless? A Toad, Likewise, Lives And Feels, And Is Equally Helpless And Harmless; But Though She Would Not Hurt A Toad, She Cannot Love It Like The Bird, With Its Graceful Form, Soft Feathers, And Bright, Speaking Eyes.