The editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care, His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a chair, His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his head, His eyes on his dusty table, with different documents spread.

I hope we never live to see the day when a thing is as bad as some of our newspapers make it

If there's a heaven upon the earth, a fellow knows it whenHe's been away from home a week, and then gets back again.

And that was the way The deuce was to pay As it always is, at the close of the day That gave us-- Hurray! Hurray! Hurray! (With some restrictions, the fault-finders say) That which, please God, we will keep for aye Our National Independence!

Not all the labor of the earth Is done by hardened hands.

There's lots of people--this town wouldn't hold them; Who don't know much excepting what's told them.