Frances Cleveland (July 21, 1864 – October 29, 1947) was the first lady of the United States from 1886 to 1889 and again from 1893 to 1897, as the wife of President Grover Cleveland. She met him while an infant, as he was a friend, and later the executor, of her father, Oscar Folsom. Grover settled Oscar's debts and provided for Frances. She graduated from Wells College, then married Grover while he was president. When he lost reelection in 1888, they went into private life for four years, returning when he was elected again in 1892. Much of her time during Grover's second term was dedicated to their children. They had five; four survived to adulthood. Frances Cleveland served on the Wells College board, supported women's education, and organized kindergartens. Grover died in 1908, and she married Thomas J. Preston Jr. in 1913. During World War I, she advocated military preparedness. She died in 1947 and was buried alongside Grover Cleveland in Princeton Cemetery. This portrait photograph of Frances Cleveland was taken in 1886.Photograph credit: Charles Milton Bell; restored by Adam Cuerden
... that Steve Elcock's Symphony No. 6 is dedicated to "the everlasting execration of self-serving politicians, the obscenely rich and the system that allows them to remain so"?
This Wikipedia page is considered semi-tractor-trailer-policy. Semi-tractor-trailer-policy pages are an attempt to jack-knife any real policies and present herculean efforts in codification to questionable purpose. These long-standing unwritten unapproved unthought unrules have widespread support since no actual vote ever becomes real. They should be treated as law, unless they do not support your flame war.
It is so terribly sad that I have to explain that the above is a JOKE
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
For unique design and interesting content, I present you with this Excellent User Page Award. –Frater5(talk/con) 16:12, 29 May 2006 (UTC)
.jpg)
