It is by muteness that a dog becomes for one so utterly beyond value; with him one is at peace, where words play no torturing tricks.Those are the moments that I think are precious to a dog-when, with his adoring soul coming through his eyes, he feels that you are really thinking of him.

The French cook; we open tins.

Memory heaps dead leaves on corpse-like deeds, from under which they do but vaguely offend the sense.

I am still under the impression that there is nothing alive quite so beautiful as a thoroughbred horse.

It`s always worth while before you do anything to consider whether it`s going to hurt another person more than is absolutely necessary.

Love is not a hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!

Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives.