A Mother Is The Truest Friend We

Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.

What Earnest Worker, With Hand And Brain For The Benefit Of His Fellowmen, Could Desire A More Pleasing Recognition Of His Usefulness Than The Monument Of A Tree, Ever Growing, Ever Blooming, And Ever Bearing Wholesome Fruit?

There Is A Sacredness In Tears. They Are Not The Mark Of Weakness, But Of Power. They Speak More Eloquently Than Ten Thousand Tongues. They Are The Messengers Of Overwhelming Grief, Of Deep Contrition, And Of Unspeakable Love.

He Who Thinks Much Says But Little In Proportion To His Thoughts. He Selects That Language Which Will Convey His Ideas In The Most Explicit And Direct Manner. He Tries To Compress As Much Thought As Possible Into A Few Words. On The Contrary, The Man Who Talks Everlastingly And Promiscuously, Who Seems To Have An Exhaustless Magazine Of Sound, Crowds So Many Words Into His Thoughts That He Always Obscures, And Very Frequently Conceals Them.

Her Mighty Lakes, Like Oceans Of Liquid Silver; Her Mountains With Their Right Aerial Tints; Her Valleys, Teeming With Wild Fertility; Her Tremendous Cataracts, Thundering In Their Solitudes; Her Boundless Plains, Waving With Spontaneous Verdure; Her Brought Deep Rivers, Rolling In Solemn Silence To The Ocean; Her Trackless Forests, Where Vegetation Puts Forth All Its Magnificence; Her Skies, Kindling Waves In The Magic Of The Summer Clouds And Glorious Sunshine;-no, Never Need An American Look Beyond His Own Country For The Sublime And Beautiful Of Natural Scenery.