The Sorrow For The Dead Is The

There Is In Every True Woman's Heart, A Spark Of Heavenly Fire, Which Lies Dormant In The Broad Daylight Of Prosperity, But Which Kindles Up And Beams And Blazes In The Dark Hour Of Adversity.

Christmas Is Here, Merry Old Christmas, Gift-bearing Christmas, Day Of Grand Memories, King Of The Year!

Good Temper, Like A Sunny Day, Sheds A Ray Of Brightness Over Everything; It Is The Sweetener Of Toil And The Soother Of Disquietude!

The Youthful Freshness Of A Blameless Heart.

There Is A Certain Artificial Polish, A Commonplace Vivacity Acquired By Perpetually Mingling In The Beau Monde; Which, In The Commerce Of World, Supplies The Place Of Natural Suavity And Good-humour, But Is Purchased At The Expense Of All Original And Sterling Traits Of Character.