It is easy to say how we love new friends, and what we think of them, but words can never trace out all the fibers that knit us to the old.

The men are mostly so slow, their thoughts overrun 'em, an' they can only catch 'em by the tail. I can count a stocking-top while a man's getting's tongue ready; an' when he outs wi' his speech at last, there's little broth to be made on't. It's your dead chicks take the longest hatchin'.

Perfect love has a breath of poetry which can exalt the relations of the least-instructed human beings.

Miserliness is a capital quality to run in families; it's the safe side for madness to dip on.

Consequences are unpitying.

Letter-writing I imagine is counted as 'work' from which you must abstain, and I scribble this letter simply from the self-satisfied notion that you will like to hear from me. You see, I have asked no questions, which are the torture-screws of correspondence. Hence you have nothing to answer.

There is a sort of human paste that when it comes near the fire of enthusiasm is only baked into harder shape.