Politeness Costs Nothing. Nothing, That

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

Before A Day Was Over, Home Comes The Rover, For Mother's Kiss - Sweeter This Than Any Other Thing!

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods, And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt, And Night By Night The Monitory Blast Wails In The Key-hole, Telling How It Pass'd O'er Empty Fields, Or Upland Solitudes, Or Grim Wide Wave; And Now The Power Is Felt Of Melancholy, Tenderer In Its Moods Than Any Joy Indulgent Summer Dealt.

Writing Is Learning To Say Nothing, More Cleverly Every Day.

Tantarrara! The Joyous Book Of Spring Lies Open, Writ In Blossoms.