Sleep sweetly in the fields of asphodel, and waken, as of old, to stretch thy languid length, and purr thy soft contentment to the skies.

There is no illusion so permanent as that which enables us to look backward with complacency; there is no mental process so deceptive as the comparing of recollections with realities.

I am eighty years old. There seems to be nothing to add to this statement. I have reached the age of undecorated facts - facts that refuse to be softened by sentiment, or confused by nobility of phrase.

It is not what we learn in conversation that enriches us. It is the elation that comes of swift contact with tingling currents of thought.

We have but the memories of past good cheer, we have but the echoes of departed laughter. In vain we look and listen for the mirth that has died away. In vain we seek to question the gray ghosts of old-time revelers.

Letter-writing on the part of a busy man or woman is the quintessence of generosity.

The least practical of us have some petty thrift dear to our hearts, some one direction in which we love to scrimp.