Colors Are The Smiles Of Nature.

The Fish Is Swift, Small-needing, Vague Yet Clear, A Cold, Sweet, Silver Life, Wrapped In Round Waves.

Part Of Our Good Consists In The Endeavor To Do Sorrows Away, And In The Power To Sustain Them When The Endeavor Fails,--to Bear Them Nobly, And Thus Help Others To Bear Them As Well.

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.

Improvement Is Nature.

The Only Place A New Hat Can Be Carried Into With Safety Is A Church, For There Is Plenty Of Room There.