Oh! to be a child again. My only treasures, bits of shell and stone and glass. To love nothing but maple sugar. To fear nothing but a big dog. To go to sleep without dreading the morrow. To wake up with a shout. Not to have seen a dead face. Not to dread a living one. To be able to believe.

Nowhere more than in New York does the contest between squalor and splendor so sharply present itself.

There are no little things. "Little things," so called, are the hinges of the universe.

A little oil makes machinery work easy.

Why don't men ... leave off those detestable stiff collars, stocks, and things, that make them all look like choked chickens, and which hide so many handsomely-turned throats, that a body never sees, unless a body is married, or unless a body happens to see a body's brothers while they are shaving.

Hotel life is about the same in every latitude.

What a pity when editors review a woman's book, that they so often fall into the error of reviewing the woman instead.