The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.

The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.

The victory of endurance born.

Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.

The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.