The February Sunshine Steeps Your

The Press, Important As Is Its Office, Is But The Servant Of The Human Intellect, And Its Ministry Is For Good Or For Evil, According To The Character Of Those Who Direct It. The Press Is A Mill Which Grinds All That Is Put Into Its Hopper. Fill The Hopper With Poisoned Grain, And It Will Grind It To Meal, But There Is Death In The Bread.

When April Winds Grew Soft, The Maple Burst Into A Flush Of Scarlet Flowers. The Tulip Tree, High Up, Opened In Airs Of June Her Multitude Of Golden Chalices To Humming-birds And Silken-wing'd Insects Of The Sky.

I Shall Seethe Hour Of Death Draw Near To Me,hope, Blossoming Within My Heart. . . .

Truth Crushed To The Earth Will Rise Again!

The Little Wind-flower, Whose Just Opened Eye Is Blue As The Spring Heaven It Gazes At.