The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.
William C. BryantAnd suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
William C. BryantA herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.
William C. Bryant