That day of wrath, that dreadful day. When heaven and earth shall pass away.

Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand!

The misery of keeping a dog is his dying so soon. But, to be sure, if he lived for fifty years and then died, what would become of me?

Cats are a very mysterious kind of folk. There is always more passing in their minds than we are aware of.

We are like the herb which flourisheth most when it is most trampled on.

As good play for nothing, you know, as work for nothing.

Fair play is a jewel.