Mirth is God's medicine. Everybody ought to bathe in it. Grim care, moroseness, anxiety,--all this rust of life, ought to be scoured off by the oil of mirth. It is better than emery. Every man ought to rub himself with it. A man without mirth is like a wagon without springs, in which one is caused disagreeably to jolt by every pebble over which it runs.

Many of our troubles are God dragging us, and they would end if we would stand upon our feet and go whither He would have us go.

It is not well for a man to pray cream and live skim milk.

Going out into life--that is dying. Christ is the door out of life.

October is the opal month of the year. It is the month of glory, of ripeness. It is the picture-month.

No town can fail of beauty, though its walks were gutters and its houses hovels, if venerable trees make magnificent colonnades along its streets.

There are sorrows that are not painful, but are of the nature of some acids, and give piquancy and flavor to life.