The thankful heart will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings.

It is not work that kills men; it is worry. Worry is rust upon the blade.

Expedients are for the hour, but principles are for the ages.

A mother has, perhaps, the hardest earthly lot; and yet no mother worthy of the name ever gave herself thoroughly for her child who did not feel that, after all, she reaped what she had sown.

Grim care, moroseness, anxiety-all this rust of life ought to be scoured off by the oil of mirth. Mirth is God's medicine.

God has made sleep to be a sponge by which to rub out fatigue. A man's roots are planted in night as in a soil.

Mirth is God's medicine.