O’er the wet sands an insect crept Ages ere man on earth was known— And patient Time, while Nature sl… The slender tracing turned to ston… ’T was the first autograph: and ou…

THOUGH old the thought and oft… ’Tis his at last who says it best, I’ll try my fortune with the rest. Life is a leaf of paper white Whereon each one of us may write

From Mr. Hosea Biglow To The Ho… This kind o’ sogerin’ aint a mite… A chap could clear right out from… An’ th’ Cunnles, tu, could kiver… An’ send the insines skootin’ to t…

Worn and footsore was the Prophet… When he gained the holy hill; ‘God has left the earth,’ he murmu… ‘Here his presence lingers still. ’God of all the olden prophets,

Once git a smell o’ musk into a dr… An’ it clings hold like precerdent… Your gra’ma’am put it there,—when,… To jes this—worldify her Sunday-c… But the old chist wun’t sarve her…

Weak-Winged is Song, Nor aims at that clear-ethered hei… Whither the brave deed climbs for… We seem to do them wrong, Bringing our robin’s-leaf to deck…

The old Chief, feeling now wellni… Called his two eldest children to… And gave them, in few words, his p… ‘My son and daughter, me ye see no… The happy hunting-grounds await me…

Alike I hate to be your debtor, Or write a mere perfunctory letter… For letters, so it seems to me, Our careless quintessence should b… Our real nature’s truant play

Gone, gone from us! and shall we s… Those sibyl-leaves of destiny, Those calm eyes, nevermore? Those deep, dark eyes so warm and… Wherein the fortunes of the man

’Tis a woodland enchanted! By no sadder spirit Than blackbirds and thrushes, That whistle to cheer it All day in the bushes.

A presence both by night and day, That made my life seem just begun, Yet scarce a presence, rather say The warning aureole of one. And yet I felt it everywhere;

Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free; If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave? Are ye not base slaves indeed,

It don’t seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John,— Your cousin, tu, John Bull! Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess

And what is so rare as a day in J… Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be… And over it softly her warm ear la… Whether we look, or whether we lis…