If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.
O month when they who love must love and wed.
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.