I recollected one story there was in the village, how that on a certain night in the year (it might be that very night for anything I knew), all the dead people came out of the ground and sat at the heads of their own graves till morning.

If ever household affections and loves are graceful things, they are graceful in the poor. The ties that bind the wealthy and the proud to home may be forged on earth, but those which link the poor man to his humble hearth are of the true metal and bear the stamp of heaven.

In seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it.

Happiness is a gift and the trick is not to expect it, but to delight in it when it comes.

And this is the eternal law. For, Evil often stops short at istelf and dies with the doer of it! but Good, never.

The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again, and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood alone there in the calm morning air, with red upon it that the sun had never give, and would never take away.

Ride on! Ride on over all obstacles and win the race.