They will tell you tough stories of sharks all over the Cape, which I do not presume to doubt utterly,--how they will sometimes upset a boat, or tear it in pieces, to get at the man in it. I can easily believe in the undertow, but I have no doubt that one shark in a dozen years is enough to keep up the reputation of a beach a hundred miles long.

The American has dwindled into an Odd Fellow,-one who may be known by the development of his organ of gregariousness.

People die of fright and live of confidence.

In an unjust society the only place for a just man is prison.

Is it the lumberman, then, who is the friend and lover of the pine, stands nearest to it, and understands its nature best? Is it the tanner who has barked it, or he who has boxed it for turpentine, whom posterity will fable to have been changed into a pine at last? No! no! it is the poet: he it is who makes the truest use of the pine-who does not fondle it with an axe, nor tickle it with a saw, nor stroke it with a plane. . . .

As they say in geology, time never fails, there is always enough of it, so I may say, criticism never fails.

Nature abhors a vacuum, and if I can only walk with sufficient carelessness I am sure to be filled.