whose fan is in his hand, to clear out his threshing-floor, and to gather the wheat into his granary; but, the chaff, will he burn up with fire unquenchable.

And he said unto the vine-dresser - Lo! three years, I come, seeking fruit in this fig-tree, and find none. Cut it down! Why doth it make, even the round useless?

Now, a certain man, was rich, and he used to clothe himself with purple and fine linen, making merry day by day, brilliantly.

For, I say unto you - In nowise shall I drink henceforth of the fruit of the vine, until, the kingdom of God, shall come.

And, taking it down, he wrapped it in a fine Indian cloth, and laid him in a tomb hewn in stone, - where no one as yet was lying.