I Consider A Story Merely As A

To Occupy An Inch Of Dusty Shelf-to Have The Title Of Their Works Read Now And Then In A Future Age By Some Drowsy Churchman Or Casual Straggler, And In Another Age To Be Lost, Even To Remembrance. Such Is The Amount Of Boasted Immortality.

A Few Amber Clouds Floated In The Sky Without A Breath Of Air To Move Them. The Horizon Was Of A Fine Golden Tint, Changing Gradually Into A Pure Apple-green, And From That Into The Deep Blue Of The Mid-heaven.

What Earnest Worker, With Hand And Brain For The Benefit Of His Fellowmen, Could Desire A More Pleasing Recognition Of His Usefulness Than The Monument Of A Tree, Ever Growing, Ever Blooming, And Ever Bearing Wholesome Fruit?

He Who Would Study Nature In Its Wildness And Variety, Must Plunge Into The Forest, Must Explore The Glen, Must Stem The Torrent, And Dare The Precipice.

Her Mighty Lakes, Like Oceans Of Liquid Silver; Her Mountains With Their Right Aerial Tints; Her Valleys, Teeming With Wild Fertility; Her Tremendous Cataracts, Thundering In Their Solitudes; Her Boundless Plains, Waving With Spontaneous Verdure; Her Brought Deep Rivers, Rolling In Solemn Silence To The Ocean; Her Trackless Forests, Where Vegetation Puts Forth All Its Magnificence; Her Skies, Kindling Waves In The Magic Of The Summer Clouds And Glorious Sunshine;-no, Never Need An American Look Beyond His Own Country For The Sublime And Beautiful Of Natural Scenery.