Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.

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

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

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

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.

These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.

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.