At First I Was Almost About To

The Violets Prattle And Titter, And Gaze On The Stars High Above.

A Lonely Fir-tree Is Standing On A Northern Barren Height; It Sleeps, And The Ice And Snow-drift Cast Round It A Garment Of White.

Poverty Sits By The Cradle Of All Our Great Men And Rocks All Of Them To Manhood.

Each Violet Peeps From Its Dwelling To Gaze At The Bright Stars Above.

The Devil Take These People And Their Language! They Take A Dozen Monosyllabic Words In Their Jaws, Chew Them, Crunch Them And Spit Them Out Again, And Call That Speaking. Fortunately They Are By Nature Fairly Silent, And Although They Gaze At Us Open-mouthed, They Spare Us Long Conversations.