He that drinks beer, thinks beer.

He who would study nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice.

I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent can bestow.

History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscription molders from the tablet: the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust?

The love of a mother is never exhausted. It never changes - it never tires - it endures through all; in good repute, in bad repute. In the face of the world's condemnation, a mother's love still lives on.

There are moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness, which hallow the caresses of affection.

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.