Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?

That indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they have.

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.

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

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.

If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.

Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.