We Let Our Blessings Get Mouldy, And

Amid The Discords Of This Life, It Is Blessed To Think Of Heaven, Where God Draws After Him An Everlasting Train Of Music; For All Thoughts Are Harmonious And All Feelings Vocal, And So There Is Round About His Feet Eternal Melody.

Good-humor Makes All Things Tolerable

The Sun Does Not Shine For A Few Trees, And Flowers, But For The Wide World's Joy. The Lonely Pine On The Mountain-top Waves Its Sombre Boughs And Cries, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Little Meadow Violet Lifts Its Cup Of Blue, And Whispers With Its Perfumed Breath, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Grain In A Thousand Fields Rustles In The Wind, And Makes Answer, 'thou Art My Sun.' So God Sits Effulgent In Heaven, Not For A Favored Few, But For The Universe Of Life; And There Is No Creature So Poor Or So Low That He May Not Look Up With Childish Confidence And Say, 'my Father, Thou Art Mine.

If You Have Only Two Or Three Things That You Can Enjoy And They Are Things Which Time And Decay May Remove From You, What Are You Going To Do In Old Age?

As Long As Society Is Absolutely Divided As Milk Is, The Cream Being At The Top And The Impoverished Milk At The Bottom, So Long Will Society Be Unbalanced, And Liable To Be Thrown Into Convulsions Out Of Which Will Spring Wars. A Circulation Throughout Keeps It In Health.