Canst Thou Prophesy, Thou Little Tree, What

A Man May Make A Misanthrope Of Himself, But He Is Never One By Nature.

Because Its Myriad Glimmering Plumes Like A Great Army's Stir And Wave; Because Its Golden Billows Blooms, The Poor Man's Barren Walks To Lave: Because Its Sun-shaped Blossoms Show How Souls Receive The Light Of God, And Unto Earth Give Back That Glow I Thank Him For The Goldenrod.

When I Heard That There Were Artists, I Wished I Could Some Time Be One. If I Could Only Make A Rose Bloom On Paper, I Thought I Should Be Happy! Or If I Could At Last Succeed In Drawing The Outline Of Winter-stripped Boughs As I Saw Them Against The Sky, It Seemed To Me That I Should Be Willing To Spend Years In Trying.

In The Older Times It Was Seldom Said To Little Girls, As It Always Has Been Said To Boys, That They Ought To Have Some Definite Plan, While They Were Children, What To Be And Do When They Were Grown Up. There Was Usually But One Path Open Before Them, To Become Good Wives And Housekeepers. And The Ambition Of Most Girls Was To Follow Their Mothers' Footsteps In This Direction; A Natural And Laudable Ambition. But Girls, As Well As Boys, Must Often Have Been Conscious Of Their Own Peculiar Capabilities,--must Have Desired To Cultivate And Make Use Of Their Individual Powers.

O Mariner-soul, Thy Quest Is But Begun, There Are New Worlds Forever To Be Won.