There is a sort of homely truth and naturalness in some books which is very rare to find, and yet looks cheap enough. There may benothing lofty in the sentiment, or fine in the expression, but it is careless country talk. Homeliness is almost as great a merit in a book as in a house, if the reader would abide there. It is next to beauty, and a very high art. Some have this merit only.

There are continents and seas in the moral world, to which every man is an isthmus or inlet, yet unexplored by him.

Let go of the past and live the future . . . Live the life you imagined.

What we call wildness is a civilization other than our own.

Things don't change. We change.

I have much to learn of the Indian, nothing of the missionary.

In August, the large masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their weight again bent down and broke their tender limbs.