The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?

For April sobs while these are so glad April weeps while these are so gay,- Weeps like a tired child who had, Playing with flowers, lost its way.

There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.

Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last.

But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years of Heaven with all earth's little pain Make Good Together there we can begin again, In babyhood.

Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.