I mind me of a time that’s gone, When here I’d sit, as now I’m sitting In this same place—but not alone— A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to hear me, There’s no one now to share my cup.
Watterson reminisces about a cherished memory of companionship in a familiar place.
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I have put up my last dollar south of the Potomac.” Then I went to the King of the transcontinental railways.
In a nation of blind men,” we are told, “the one-eyed man is king.” In a nation of undiscriminating voters the noise of the agitator is apt to drown the voice of the statesman.
If you carry him off a prisoner he will be exchanged back into the fighting line, and we make nothing by it.
I strolled down to the river and sat myself upon the brink, almost despairing—nigh heartbroken—when I began to feel an irresistible fascination about the swift-flowing stream.
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