The Ocean Moans Over Dead Men's Bones.

The Possession Of Gold Has Ruined Fewer Men Than The Lack Of It.

What Is More Cheerful, Now, In The Fall Of The Year, Than An Open-wood-fire? Do You Hear Those Little Chirps And Twitters Coming Out Of That Piece Of Apple-wood? Those Are The Ghosts Of The Robins And Blue-birds That Sang Upon The Bough When It Was In Blossom Last Spring. In Summer Whole Flocks Of Them Come Fluttering About The Fruit-trees Under The Window: So I Have Singing Birds All The Year Round.

The Young Girl In My Story Is To Be As Sensitive To Praise As A Prism Is To Light. Whenever Anybody Praises Her She Breaks Into Colors.

The Ocean Moans Over Dead Men's Bones.

Between The Reputation Of The Author Living And The Reputation Of The Same Author Dead There Is Ever A Wide Discrepancy.