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.

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.

When Time is spent, Eternity begins.

I shall be found with 'Indians' engraved on my brain when I am dead. A fire has been kindled within me, which will never go out.

Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.

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

That indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they have.