Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.

The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -

Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.

The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.