The Still Small Voice Is Wanted.

Spring Hangs Her Infant Blossoms On The Trees, Rock'd In The Cradle Of The Western Breeze.

How Soft The Music Of Those Village Bells, Falling At Interval Upon The Ear In Cadence Sweet; Now Dying All Away, Now Pealing Loud Again, And Louder Still, Clear And Sonorous, As The Gale Comes On! With Easy Force It Opens All The Cells Where Memory Slept.

A Self-made Man? Yes, And One Who Worships His Creator.

No Traveler E'er Reached That Blest Abode Who Found Not Thorns And Briers In His Road.

A Fool Must Now And Then Be Right, By Chance