The Blossom Cannot Tell What Becomes Of

There Is Nothing That A New-englander So Nearly Worships As An Argument.

The Meanest Thing In The World Is The Devil.

What If The Leaves Were To Fall A-weeping, And Say, "it Will Be So Painful For Us To Be Pulled From Our Stalks, When Autumn Comes?" Foolish Fear! Summer Goes, And Autumn Succeeds. The Glory Of Death Is Upon The Leaves; And The Gentlest Breeze That Blows Takes Them Softly And Silently From The Bough, And They Float Slowly Down, Like Fiery Sparks, Upon The Moss.

Death Is The Christian's Vacation Morning. School Is Out. It Is Time To Go Home.

Do Not Give, As Many Rich Men Do, Like A Hen That Lays Her Eggs ...and Then Cackles.