Dry leaves upon the wall, Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape, A single frosted cluster on the grape Still hangs--and that is all.

Every day is a fresh beginning. Every morn is the world made anew.

So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung.

All green and fair the summer lies, Just budded from the bud of spring, With tender blue of wistful skies, And winds that softly sing.

To-morrow I will begin, thought Katy, as she dropped asleep that night. How often we all do so! And what a pity it is that when morning comes and to-morrow is to-day, we so frequently wake up feeling quite differently; careless or impatient, and not a bit inclined to do the fine things we planned overnight.

True love is not selfish. In time it accustoms itself to anything which secures happiness for its object.

As we meet and touch, each day, The many travelers on our way, Let every such brief contact be A glorious, helpful minister.