Every father knows at once too much and too little about his own son.

When a literary person's exhaustive work is over, the last thing he wishes to do is to talk books.

Uncles and aunts, and cousins, are all very well, and fathers and mothers are not to be despised; but a grandmother, at holiday time, is worth them all.

The cream of enjoyment in this life is always impromptu. The chance walk; the unexpected visit; the unpremeditated journey; the unsought conversation or acquaintance.

One person is as good as another in New England, and better, too.

Too much indulgence has ruined thousands of children; too much love not one.

I am convinced that there are times in everybody's experience when there is so much to be done, that the only way to do it is to sit down and do nothing.