To Make The Common Marvelous Is The

There Is No Self-delusion More Fatal Than That Which Makes The Conscience Dreamy With The Anodyne Of Lofty Sentiments, While The Life Is Groveling And Sensual

What Means This Glory Round Our Feet, The Magi Mused, "more Bright Than Morn!" And Voices Chanted Clear And Sweet, "to-day The Prince Of Peace Is Born.

Time Is, After All, The Greatest Of Poets; And The Sons Of Memory Stand A Better Chance Of Being The Heirs Of Fame.

So We're All Right, An' I, For One, Don't Think Our Cause'll Lose In Vally By Rammin' Scriptur' In Our Gun, An' Gittin' Natur' For An Ally.

Ez Fer War, I Call It Murder,- There You Hev It Plain An' Flat; I Don't Want To Go No Furder Than My Testyment Fer That. . . . . . An' You 've Gut To Git Up Airly Ef You Want To Take In God.