Still Sweet With Blossoms Is The Year's

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

Tender Pauses Speak The Overflow Of Gladness, When Words Are All Too Weak.

So They, Who Climb To Wealth, Forget The Friends In Darker Fortunes Tried. I Copied Them--but I Regret That I Should Ape The Ways Of Pride.

The Press, Important As Is Its Office, Is But The Servant Of The Human Intellect, And Its Ministry Is For Good Or For Evil, According To The Character Of Those Who Direct It. The Press Is A Mill Which Grinds All That Is Put Into Its Hopper. Fill The Hopper With Poisoned Grain, And It Will Grind It To Meal, But There Is Death In The Bread.

There Is No Glory In Star Or Blossom Till Looked Upon By A Loving Eye; There Is No Fragrance In April Breezes Till Breathed With Joy As They Wander By.