It ceased; yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.—Coleridge.
137. Toil—toil, either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand—is the only true manhood, the only true nobility.—Orville Dewey.
138. He had his eye all but exclusively directed on terrestrial matters.—Carlyle.
139. And then, again, some of our old beliefs are dying out every year, and others feed on them and grow fat, or get poisoned, as the case may be.—Holmes.
140. Old Matthew Maule, in a word, was executed for the crime of witchcraft.—Hawthorne.