Original Poems for Infant Minds My Mother
Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother. – Anon.

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We are all tattooed in our cradles with the beliefs of our tribe; the record may seem superficial, but it is indelible. You cannot educate a man wholly out of the superstitious fears which were implanted in his imagination, no matter how utterly his reason may reject them. – Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., The Poet at the Breakfast Table, 1872
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