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.

And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, till the Devil whispered behind the leaves 'It's pretty, but is it Art?'

One learns more from a good scholar in a rage than from a score of lucid and laborious drudges.

An ounce of mother is worth a pound of clergy.

Many religious people are deeply suspicious. They seem, for purely religious purposes, of course, to know more about iniquity than the unregenerate.

More men are killed by overwork than the importance of the world justifies.

Who has smelled the woodsmoke at twilight, who has seen the campfire burning, who is quick to read the noises of the night?