Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.

What a blessed thing it is, that Nature, when she invented, manufactured, and patented her authors, contrived to make critics out of the chips that were left!

The books we read should be chosen with great care, that they may be, as an Egyptian king wrote over his library,'The medicines of the soul.

There is no friend like an old friend who has shared our morning days, no greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise.

Don't you stay at home of evenings? Don't you love a cushioned seat in a corner, by the fireside, with your slippers on your feet?

Whatever comes from the brain carries the hue of the place it came from, and whatever comes from the heart carries the heat and color of its birthplace.

Without wearing any mask we are conscious of, we have a special face for each friend.