'But den when I leafs it you eats de toorky up!' he exclaimed in sorrowful remonstrance.
'Yes,' I replied, like a Roman. 'Yes—I may eat it—but,' I added in tones of high moral conscientiousness, 'remember that I didn't STEAL it!'
He went forth abashed.
No more till it is eaten, from
Yours truly,
POPPY OYLE.
We are indebted to a Philadelphia correspondent for the following:
Alas! that noble thoughts so oft
Are born to live but for an hour,
Then sleep in slumber of the soul
As droops at night the passion flower,
Their morn is like a summer sun
With splendor dawning on the day—
Their eve beholds that glory gone,
And light with splendor fled away.
J. W. L.
True indeed. The difference between the great mind and the small is after all that the former can retain its 'noble thoughts,' while with the latter they are evanescent. And it is the glory of Art that it revives such feelings, and keeps early impressions alive.