What is it to hate poetry? It is to have no little dreams and fancies, no holy memories of golden days, to be unmoved by serene midsummer evenings or dawn over wild lands, singing or sunshine, little tales told by the fire a long while since, glow-worms and briar rose; for of all these things and more is poetry made. It is to be cut off forever from the fellowship of great men that are gone; to see men and women without their halos and the world without its glory; to miss the meaning lurking behind the common things, like elves hiding in flowers; it is to beat one’s hands all day against the gates of Fairyland and to find that they are shut and the country empty and its kings gone hence.
Why is it that in nearly all decisions of the Supreme court the most interesting opinions are delivered by the dissenting justices?
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]“New Jack-a-Bean dining room furniture, used two months; will sell cheap.”—El Paso Herald.
That is the kind that Louis Canns has his apartment furnished with.
A CHANGE FROM LATIN ROOTS.
[From the Reedsburg, Wis., Free Press.]
Miss Edna White resumed her school duties after a week’s vacation for potato digging.
OUR FAVORITE AUTUMN POEM.
(By a New Jersey poetess.)
Autumn is more beautiful, I think,
Than Spring or Winter are.
For then trees change at the river’s brink—