How Gracious Those Dews Of Solace That

Have You An Unexpurgated Copy Of Hannah More's 'letters To A Village Maiden'?

How Gracious Those Dews Of Solace That Over My Senses Fall At The Clink Of The Ice In The Pitcher The Boy Brings Up The Hall.

Used To Think That Luck Wuz Luck And Nuthin' Else But Luck-- It Made No Diff'rence How Or When Or Where Or Why It Struck; But Sev'ral Years Ago I Changt My Mind, An' Now Proclaim That Luck's A Kind Uv Science--same As Any Other Game.

Not So, However, With Books, For Books Cannot Change. A Thousand Years Hence They Are What You Find Them To-day, Speaking The Same Words, Holding Forth The Same Cheer, The Same Promise, The Same Comfort; Always Constant, Laughing With Those Who Laugh And Weeping With Those Who Weep.

A Mighty Good Sausage Stuffer Was Spoiled When The Man Became A Poet.