Accustomed as I am to public speaking, I know the futility of it.

Nothing is more responsible for the good old days than a bad memory.

The rich man has his motorcar, His country and his town estate, He smokes a fifty-cent cigar And jeers at Fate. He frivols through the livelong day, He knows not Poverty, her pinch. His lot seems light, his heart seems gay; He has a cinch. Yet though my lamp burns low and dim, Though I must slave for livelihood- Think you that I would change with him? You bet I would!

While the work or play is on, it is a lot of fun if while you are doing one you don't constantly feel that you ought to be doing the other.

Middle age occurs when you are too young to take up golf and too old to rush up to the net.

Having imagination, it takes you an hour to write a paragraph that, if you were unimaginative, would take you only a minute. Or you might not write the paragraph at all.

You do not know what you can miss before you try.