The tree is but a huge boquet.

A mother is as different from anything else that God ever thought of, as can possibly be. She is a distinct and individual creation.

While a man is stringing a harp, he tries the strings, not for music, but for construction. When it is finished it shall be played for melodies. God is fashioning the human heart for future joy. He only sounds a string here and there to see how far His work has progressed.

The one great poem of New England is her Sunday.

Where all of the man is what property he owns, it does not take long to annihilate him.

A cunning man overreaches no one half as much as himself.

Before men we stand as opaque bee-hives. They can see the thoughts go in and out of us; but what work they do inside of a man they cannot tell. Before God we are as glass bee-hives, and all that our thoughts are doing within us he perfectly sees and understands.