Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,

But slay him, my lad, or he'll slay you!

Break from him, tramp on him,

And as you stamp on him

You'll be St. George and the dragon anew.

Muloch.

She wore a prim shaker, and dressed like a Quaker.

OCTOBER 4TH.

OCTOBER 5TH.

OCTOBER 7TH.

OCTOBER 8TH.

But make use of your eyes,
And always look wise,

No matter how silly you're feeling!

OCTOBER 7TH.

A year for trying,
And not for sighing;
A year for striving
And hearty thriving.

M. E. B.

OCTOBER 8TH.

He would pore by the hour
O'er a weed or a flower,

Or the slugs that came crawling out after a shower,
Black beetles, Bumble-bees, and Bluebottle flies.
Ingoldsby.

A fair, sweet soul, she humbly stands,
Like drooping lilies her folded hands.

Don't giggle or laugh;
Or indulge in chaff

That's almost as low as stealing.

M. E. B.

OCTOBER 10TH.

Are we happier? Truest bliss
Surely should consist in this

In the happiness of all,

High and low, and great and small.

Bernard Barton.

OCTOBER 11TH.

He's bad at poetry - but at school he's a brick! So good at his Latin, at cricket, foot-ball,

Whatever he tries at.

And then he's so tall!

Muloch

Untouched by any shade of years
May those kind eyes forever dwell!

Tennyson.