Every true friend is a glimpse of God.

The children with the streamlets sing, When April stops at last her weeping; And every happy growing thing Laughs like a babe just roused from sleeping.

Life hangs as nothing in the scale against dear Liberty!

I defied the machinery to make me its slave. Its incessant discords could not drown the music of my thoughts if I would let them fly high enough.

There is something in the place where we were born that holds us always by the heart-strings.

A journal of the 'subjective' kind I have always thought foolish, as nurturing a morbid self -consciousness in the writer; and yet, alone so much as I am, it is well to have some sort of a ventilator from the interior.

The peach-bud glows, the wild bee hums, and wind-flowers wave in graceful gladness.