The Love Of A Mother Is Never

As The Vine Which Has Long Twined Its Graceful Foliage About The Oak And Been Lifted By It Into Sunshine, Will, When The Hardy Plant Is Rifted By The Thunderbolt, Cling Round It With Its Caressing Tendrils And Bind Up Its Shattered Boughs, So Is It Beautifully Ordered By Providence That Woman, Who Is The Mere Dependent And Ornament Of Man In His Happier Hours, Should Be His Stay And Solace When Smitten With Sudden Calamity, Winding Herself Into The Rugged Recesses Of His Nature, Tenderly Supporting The Drooping Head, And Binding Up The Broken Heart.

The Moan Of The Whip-poor-will From The Hillside; The Boding Cry Of The Tree-toad, That Harbinger Of Storm; The Dreary Hooting Of The Screechowl.

A Mother Is The Truest Friend We Have.

Jealous People Poison Their Own Banquet And Then Eat It

The Very Difference Of Character In Marriage Produces A Harmonious Combination.