[A]ll of life, as we know it, moves in little, unavailing circles. More justly than to anything else, it can be likened to the game of baseball. Crack! we hit the ball, and away we go. If we earn a run (in life we call it success) we get back to the home plate and sit upon a bench. If we are thrown out, we walk back to the home plate -- and sit upon a bench.

Whenever he saw a dollar in another man's hands he took it as a personal grudge, if he couldn't take it any other way.

A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.

You can't appreciate home till you've left it, money till it's spent, your wife till she's joined a woman's club, nor Old Glory till you see it hanging on a broomstick on the shanty of a consul in a foreign town.

We can't buy one minute of time with cash; if we could, rich people would live longer.

It'll be a great place if they ever finish it.

There is one day that is ours. Thanksgiving Day is the one day that is purely American.