There Never Was A Great Man Yet

Poor People Make A Very Poor Business Of It When They Try To Seem Rich.

In Glades They Meet Skull After Skull Where Pine Cones Lay-the Rusted Gun, Green Shoes Full Of Bones, The Mouldering Coat And Cuddled Up Skeleton; And Scores Of Such. Some Start As In Dreams, And Comrades Lost Bemoan; By The Edge Of Those Wilds Stonewall Had Charged- But The Year And The Man Were Gone.

There Are Hardly Five Critics In America; And Several Of Them Are Asleep.

The Marquesan Girls Dance All Over; Not Only Do Their Feet Dance, But Their Arms, Hands, Fingers, Ay, Their Very Eyes Seem To Dance In Their Heads.

It Is Not The Purpose Of Literature To Purvey News. For News Consult The Almanac De Gotha.