To Dwellers In A Wood, Almost Every

She Was Of The Stuff Of Which Great Men's Mothers Are Made. She Was Indispensable To High Generation, Hated At Tea Parties, Feared In Shops, And Loved At Crises.

George's Son Had Done His Work So Thoroughly That He Was Considered Too Good A Workman To Live, And Was, In Fact, Taken And Tragically Shot At Twelve O'clock That Same Day—another Instance Of The Untoward Fate Which So Often Attends Dogs And Other Philosophers Who Follow Out A Train Of Reasoning To Its Logical Conclusion, And Attempt Perfectly Consistent Conduct In A World Made Up So Largely Of Compromise.

If We Be Doomed To Marry, We Marry; If We Be Doomed To Remain Single We Do.

To Dwellers In A Wood, Almost Every Species Of Tree Has Its Voice As Well As Its Feature.

My Weakness Has Always Been To Prefer The Large Intention Of An Unskilful Artist To The Trivial Intention Of An Accomplished One: In Other Words, I Am More Interested In The High Ideas Of A Feeble Executant Than In The High Execution Of A Feeble Thinker.