I have always noticed that when people consider others eccentric, it is because they are reveling in some form of enjoyment that their critics can neither compass nor share.

Why is it that so many people think that charity consists in giving away merely what they cannot use instead of the article the recipient needs?

in the city at best one lives the life of others, the life of the shop, the street, the crowd, while in the country one must live one's own life.

what is life worth if one has nothing to give away? This lack, it seems to me, must be the sharpest pang of poverty.

Why has no one written a November rhapsody with plenty of lilt and swing? The poets who are moved at all by this month seem only stirred to lamentation, giving us year end and 'melancholy days' remarks, thereby showing that theory is stronger than observation among the rhyming brotherhood, or else that they have chronic indigestion and no gardens to stimulate them.

what's the good of having news an' ye must coop it? It's like cold veal pie upon the chest for supper, the same being over old, under done, and dry o' gravy.

I have always noticed that when people consider others eccentric, it is because they are reveling in some form of enjoyment that their critics can neither compass nor share.