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.

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

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

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.

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

Most men call fretting a minor fault, a foible, and not a vice. There is no vice except drunkenness which can so utterly destroy the peace, the happiness of a hoe.

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