No man rides so high and in such good company as the man that allies himself to a truth.

The pen is the tongue of the hand; a silent utterer of words for the eye.

The tree is but a huge boquet.

Boys have their soft and gentle moods too. You would suppose by the morning racket that nothing could be more foreign to their nature than romance and vague sadness. . . . But boys have hours of great sinking and sadness, when kindness and fondness are peculiarly needful to them.

There is nothing that a New-Englander so nearly worships as an argument.

There is no friendship, no love, like that of the parent for the child.

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.