Bear figs for a season or two, and the world outside the orchard is very unwilling you should bear thistles.

Maternal love, like an orange tree, buds and blossoms and bears at once. When a woman puts her finger for the first time into the tiny hand of her baby and feels that helpless clutch which tightens her very heartstrings, she is born again with her newborn child.

Bear figs for a season or two, and the world outside the orchard is very unwilling you should bear thistles.

Pictures made in childhood are painted in bright hues.

Please drop a note to the clerk of the weather, and have a good, rousing snow-storm -- say on the twenty-second. None of your meek, gentle, nonsensical, shilly-shallying snow-storms; not the sort where the flakes float lazily down from the sky as if they didn't care whether they ever got here or not, and then melt away as soon as they touch the earth, but a regular business-like whizzing, whirring, blurring, cutting snow-storm, warranted to freeze and stay on!

To let blessed babies go dangling and dawdling without names, for months and months, was enough to ruin them for life.

When, all at once, you find you have something precious you only dimly suspected was to be yours, you almost wish it hadn't come so soon.