Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to win victories by turning somersets in the air.

Listen my children and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere

I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Autumn arrives like a warrior with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.

Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! The frontier town and citadel of night!

The hearts of some women tremble like leaves at every breath of love which reaches them, and they are still again. Others, like the ocean, are moved only by the breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled to rest.

As the heart is, so is love to the heart. It partakes of its strength or weakness, its health or disease.