How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.

Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.

America, I raised a boy for you. America, you'll find him staunch and true, Place a gun upon his shoulder, He is ready to die or do. America, he is my only one; My hope, my pride and joy, But if I had another, He would march beside his …

All sensible people agree in thinking that large seminaries of young ladies, though managed with all the vigilance and caution which human abilities can exert, are in danger of great corruption.

The enthusiastic and pleasing illusions of youth.

Man—vir, woman—femina, go to make up the man—homo. There can be no comparison, no rivalry between them; they are the complement of each other, and a little child shall lead them.