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

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like young Lochinvar.

We often praise the evening clouds, And tints so gay and bold, But seldom think upon our God, Who tinged these clouds with gold.

I like a highland friend who will stand by me not only when I am in the right, but when I am a little in the wrong.

On his bold visage middle age Had slightly press'd its signet sage, Yet had not quench'd the open truth And fiery vehemence of youth: Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare.

The willow which bends to the tempest often escapes better than the oak which resists it.

Adversity is, to me at least, a tonic and a bracer.