philus Thistle, the thistle-sifter, sifted a sieve of unsifted
thistles. If Theophilus Thistle, the thistle-sifter, sifted a sieve of
unsifted thistles, where is the sieve of unsifted thistles that
Theophilus Thistle, the thistle-sifter, sifted?

10. Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea!

11. The splendor falls on castle walls,
And snowy summits old in story.

12. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time.

13. The moan of doves in immemorial elms,
And murmurings of innumerable bees.

14. The Ladies' Aid ladies were talking about a conversation they had
overheard, before the meeting, between a man and his wife.

"They must have been at the Zoo," said Mrs. A.; "because I heard her
mention 'a trained deer.'"

"Goodness me!" laughed Mrs. B. "What queer hearing you must have! They
were talking about going away, and she said, 'Find out about the
train, dear.'"

"Well, did anybody ever!" exclaimed Mrs. C. "I am sure they were
talking about musicians, for she said, 'a trained ear,' as distinctly
as could be."

The discussion began to warm up, and in the midst of it the lady
herself appeared. They carried the case to her promptly, and asked for
a settlement.

"Well, well, you do beat all!" she exclaimed, after hearing each one.
"I'd been out in the country overnight and was asking my husband if it
rained here last night."

15. Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope
The careless lips that speak of s[)o]ap for soap;
Her edict exiles from her fair abode
The clownish voice that utters r[)o]ad for road;
Less stern to him who calls his coat a c[)o]at,
And steers his boat believing it a b[)o]at.
She pardoned one, our classic city's boast,
Who said at Cambridge, m[)o]st instead of most,
But knit her brows and stamped her angry foot
To hear a Teacher call a root a r[)o]ot.

16. Hear the tolling of the bells--
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people--ah, the people--
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In