There's folks 'ud stand on their heads and then say the fault was i' their boots.

I've never any pity for conceited people, because I think they carry their comfort about with them.

Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.

The reward of one duty is the power to fulfill another.

When one is grateful for something too good for common thanks, writing is less unsatisfactory than speech-one does not, at least, hear how inadequate the words are.

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.

Them as ha' never had a cushion don't miss it.