The discovery of a grey hair when you are brushing out your whiskers of a morning - first fallen flake of the coming snows of age - is a disagreeable thing.

In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.

I have learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, not the applauding thunder at its heels that men call fame.

Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.

Nature never quite goes along with us. She is somber at weddings, sunny at funerals, and she frowns on ninety-nine out of a hundred picnics.

In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.

Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.