The Groves Were God's First Temples.

The Little Wind-flower, Whose Just Opened Eye Is Blue As The Spring Heaven It Gazes At.

The Summer Morn Is Bright And Fresh, The Birds Are Darting By. As If They Loved To Breast The Breeze That Sweeps The Cool Clear Sky.

There Is No Glory In Star Or Blossom Till Looked Upon By A Loving Eye; There Is No Fragrance In April Breezes Till Breathed With Joy As They Wander By.

Music Is Not Merely A Study, It Is An Entertainment; Wherever There Is Music There Is A Throng Of Listeners.

A Herd Of Prairie-wolves Will Enter A Field Of Melons And Quarrel About The Division Of The Spoils As Fiercely And Noisily As So Many Politicians.