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

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.

It is not depravity that afflicts the human race so much as a general lack of intelligence.

A world of vested interests is not a world which welcomes the disruptive force of candor.

There is a vast deal of make-believe in the carefully nurtured sentiment for country life, and the barefoot boy, and the mountain girl.

It has been wisely said that we cannot really love anybody at whom we never laugh.

Wit is a thing capable of proof.