Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.

Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.

How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.

Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.

Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.

There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.

No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.