In the jungle, life and food depend on keeping your temper.

You sometimes see a woman who would have made a Joan of Arc in another century and climate, threshing herself to pieces over all the mean worry of housekeeping.

One half of my head, from the top of my skull to the cleft of my jaw, hammers, bangs, sizzles while the other half, serene and content, looks on at the agony next door.

How can you do anything until you have seen everything,or as much as you can?

And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose, And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows.

Those who only know England know not England.

And the end of the fight is tombstone white with the name of the late deceased, and the epitaph drear, "A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the East."