An Author Is Like A Baker; It

A Dog Can Have A Friend; He Has Affections And Character, He Can Enjoy Equally The Field And The Fireside; He Dreams, He Caresses, He Propitiates; He Offends, And Is Pardoned; He Stands By You In Adversity; He Is A Good Fellow.

It Flows Through Old Hushed Egypt And Its Sands, Like Some Grave Mighty Thought Threading A Dream, And Times And Things, As In That Vision, Seem Keeping Along It Their Eternal Stands.

Danger For Danger's Sake Is Senseless.

A Friend Of Ours, Who Is An Admirer Of Isaac Walton, Was Struck, Just As We Were, With The Likeness Of The Old Angler's Face To A Fish.

Fishes Do Not Roar; They Cannot Express Any Sound Of Suffering; And Therefore The Angler Chooses To Think They Do Not Suffer, More Than It Is Convenient For Him To Fancy. Now It Is A Poor Sport That Depends For Its Existence On The Want Of A Voice In The Sufferer, And Of Imagination In The Sportsman.