[i]n The Gloomy Month Of

To Look Upon Its Grass Grown Yard, Where The Sunbeams Seem To Sleep So Quietly, One Would Think That There At Least The Dead Might Rest In Peace.

There Is A Remembrance Of The Dead To Which We Turn Even From The Charms Of The Living.

Christmas Is A Season For Kindling The Fire For Hospitality In The Hall, The Genial Flame Of Charity In The Heart.

A Father May Turn His Back On His Child, Brothers And Sisters May Become Inveterate Enemies, Husbands May Desert Their Wives, Wives Their Husbands. But A Mother's Love Endures Through All; In Good Repute, In Bad Repute, In The Face Of The World's Condemnation, A Mother Still Loves On, And Still Hopes That Her Child May Turn From His Evil Ways, And Repent; Still She Remembers The Infant Smiles That Once Filled Her Bosom With Rapture, The Merry Laugh, The Joyful Shout Of His Childhood, The Opening Promise Of His Youth; And She Can Never Be Brought To Think Him All Unworthy.

Those Who Are Well Assured Of Their Own Standing Are Least Apt To Trespass On That Of Others, Whereas Nothing Is So Offensive As The Aspirings Of Vulgarity Which Thinks To Elevate Itself By Humiliating Its Neighbor.