The Mother's Kiss Is The Sweetest Thing

I Believe In Success, And In Comfort No Less I Believe All The Rest Is But Patter.

Autumn's The Mellow Time.

The Trees Are Indian Princes, But Soon They'll Turn To Ghosts; The Scanty Pears And Apples Hang Russet On The Bough; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn Late, 'twill Soon Be Winter Now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin Dear! And What Will This Poor Robin Do? For Pinching Days Are Near.

Pluck Not The Wayside Flower; It Is The Traveler's Dower.

Does Not The Latent Feeling That Much Of Their Striving Is To No Purpose Tend To Infuse Large Quantities Of Sham Into Men's Work?