All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.

Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

The victory of endurance born.

Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment; wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.

The press, important as is its office, is but the servant of the human intellect, and its ministry is for good or for evil, according to the character of those who direct it. The press is a mill which grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.

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.