It Is Not Poverty So

The Moan Of The Whip-poor-will From The Hillside; The Boding Cry Of The Tree-toad, That Harbinger Of Storm; The Dreary Hooting Of The Screechowl.

There Is A Sacredness In Tears

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.

I Was Always Fond Of Visiting New Scenes, And Observing Strange Characters And Manners. Even When A Mere Child I Began My Travels, And Made Many Tours Of Discovery Into Foreign Parts And Unknown Regions Of My Native City, To The Frequent Alarm Of My Parents, And The Emolument Of The Town-crier.

Over No Nation Does The Press Hold A More Absolute Control Than Over The People Of America, For The Universal Education Of The Poorest Classes Makes Every Individual A Reader.