To Travel Is To Live.

Far Away, Where The Swallows Take Refuge In Winter, Lived A King Who Had Eleven Sons And One Daughter, Elise. The Eleven Brothers--they Were All Princes--used To Go To School With Stars On Their Breasts And Swords At Their Sides. They Wrote Upon Golden Slates With Diamond Pencils, And Could Read Just As Well Without A Book As With One, So There Was No Mistake About Their Being Princes. Their Sister Elise Sat Upon A Little Footstool Of Looking-glass, And She Has A Picture-book Which Had Cost The Half Of A Kingdom. Oh, These Children Were Very Happy; But It Was Not To Last Thus Forever.

One Cannot Quite Trust The Word Of Potted Flowers," Thought The Butterfly; "they Have Too Much To Do With Men.

‎"does All The Beauty Of The World Stop When You Die?" "no," Said The Old Oak; "it Will Last Much Longer - Longer Than I Can Even Think Of." "well, Then," Said The Little May-fly, "we Have The Same Time To Live; Only We Reckon Differently.

Sharp Knives Seemed To Cut Her Delicate Feet, Yet She Hardly Felt Them, So Deep Was The Pain In Her Heart. She Could Not Forget That This Was The Last Night She Would Ever See The One For Whom She Had Left Her Home And Family, Had Given Up Her Beautiful Voice, And Had Day By Day Endured Unending Torment, Of Which He Knew Nothing At All. An Eternal Night Awaited Her.

I Have Shed Pewter Tears! It Is Too Melancholy! Rather Let Me Go To The Wars And Lose Arms And Legs! It Would At Least Be A Change. I Cannot Bear It Longer! Now, I Know What It Is To Have A Visit From One's Old Thoughts, With What They May Bring With Them! I Have Had A Visit From Mine, And You May Be Sure It Is No Pleasant Thing In The End; I Was At Last About To Jump Down From The Drawers.