Except in streetcars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady.

Love and business and family and religion and art and patriotism are nothing but shadows of words when a man's starving!

He seemed to be made of sunshine and blood-red tissue and clear weather.

There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Thanksgiving Day is the one day that is purely American.

But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat--the ardent, voluble chats after the day's study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions--ambitions interwoven each with the other's or else inconsiderable--the mutual help and inspiration; and--overlook my artlessness--stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 p.m.

Greenwich Village... the village of low rents and high arts.

O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.