Experience Is The Mother Of Custom.

Mirth Is God's Medicine. Everybody Ought To Bathe In It.

Every Green Thing Loves To Die In Bright Colors. The Vegetable Cohorts March Glowing Out Of The Year In Flaming Dresses, As If To Leave This Earth Were A Triumph And Not A Sadness. It Is Never Nature That Is Sad, But Only We, That Dare Not Look Back On The Past, And That Have Not Its Prophecy Of The Future In Our Bosoms.

If Men Had Wings And Bore Black Feathers, Few Of Them Would Be Clever Enough To Be Crows.

People Of Too Much Sentiment Are Like Fountains, Whose Overflow Keeps A Disagreeable Puddle About Them.

We Ought To Be Ten Times As Hungry For Knowledge As For Food For The Body.