There Is Never Jealousy Where There Is

To Look Upon Its Grass Grown Yard, Where The Sunbeams Seem To Sleep So Quietly, One Would Think That There At Least The Dead Might Rest In Peace.

Believe Me, The Man Who Earns His Bread By The Sweat Of His Brow, Eats Oftener A Sweeter Morsel, However Coarse, Than He Who Procures It By The Labor Of His Brains.

Christmas Is A Season For Kindling The Fire For Hospitality In The Hall, The Genial Flame Of Charity In The Heart.

Jealous People Poison Their Own Banquet And Then Eat It

Speculation Is The Romance Of Trade, And Casts Contempt Upon On All Its Sober Realities. It Renders The Stock-jobber A Magician, And The Exchange A Region Of Enchantment.