THE night is mother of the day,

The Winter of the Spring, 

And ever upon old decay

The greenest mosses cling,

Behind the cloud the skylark lurks;

Through showers the sunbeams fall; 

For God, who loveth all his works,

Has left His hope with all.

J.  G.  Whittier.

IF e'er in doing aught you dread 

Disgrace if others know it,

Then, dear child, the only way 

Is for you not to do it.

BLESS, and curse not.