Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.

There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.

Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.

The wild mustard in Southern California is like that spoken of in the New Testament. . . . Its gold is as distinct a value to the eye as the nugget gold is in the pocket.

Who longest wait of all surely wins.

Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the second.

Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.