. . . I was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days. . . .

A goal is a dream taken seriously.

Within the memory of many of my townsmen the road near which my house stands resounded with the laugh and gossip of inhabitants, and the woods which border it were notched and dotted here and there with their little gardens and dwellings, though it was then much more shut in by the forest than now.

In the long run, we only hit what we aim at.

We must have infinite faith in each other. If we have not, we must never let it leak out that we have not.

There is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which never goes out, and which no cold can chill.

Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with. He cannot inflame the minds of his audience.