In truth, a mature man who uses hair oil, unless medicinally, that man has probably got a quoggy spot in him somewhere.

For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts, to welcome such glad-hearted visitants . . .

The sweetest joys of life grow in the very jaws of its perils.

Mystery is in the morning, and mystery in the night, and the beauty of mystery is everywhere; but still the plain truth remains, that mouth and purse must be filled.

I do not think I have any uncharitable prejudice against the rattlesnake, still, I should not like to be one.

Aid my disillusionment, my friend!

Charity, like poetry, should be cultivated, if only for its being graceful.