H.M.T.

My country, 'tis of thee,
Dear land of Africa,
Of thee we sing.
Land where our fathers died,
Land of the Negro's pride,
God's truth shall ring.

My native country, thee,
Land of the black and free,
Thy name I love;
To see thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and matchless hills,
Like that above.

When all thy slanderous ghouls,
In the bosom of sheol,
Forgotten lie,
Thy monumental name shall live,
And suns thy royal brow shall gild,
Upheaved to heaven high,
O'ertopping thrones.

There were no valuables in his room, and if he was a professional thief
he had his headquarters for storing his plunder at some other place than
his room on Fourth Street. Nothing was found in his room that could lead
to the belief that he was a thief, except fifty or more small bits of
soap. The inference was that every place he visited he took all of the
soap lying around, as all of the bits were well worn and had seen long