An Hour's Terror Is Better Than A

An Hour's Terror Is Better Than A Lifetime Of Timidity.

Very Old Are The Woods; And The Buds That Break Out Of The Brier's Boughs, When March Winds Wake, So Old With Their Beauty Are-- Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose.

Slowly, Silently, Now The Moon Walks The Night In Her Silver Shoon.

Three Jolly Huntsmen, In Coats Of Red, Rode Their Horses Up To Bed.

Poor Tired Tim! It's Sad For Him He Lags The Long Bright Morning Through, Ever So Tired Of Nothing To Do.