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.

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 hushed winds their Sabbath keep.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

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