The Sea Complains Upon A Thousand Shores.

Books Are A Finer World Within The World. (1863)

Looking Forward Into An Empty Year Strikes One With A Certain Awe, Because One Finds Therein No Recognition. The Years Behind Have A Friendly Aspect, And They Are Warmed By The Fires We Have Kindled, And All Their Echoes Are The Echoes Of Our Own Voices.

I Would Rather Be Remembered By A Song Than By A Victory.

Pride's Chickens Have Bonny Feathers, But They Are An Expensive Brood To Rear. They Eat Up Everything, And Are Always Lean When Brought To Market.

In The Entire Circle Of The Year There Are No Days So Delightful As Those Of A Fine October.