I am convinced that there are times in everybody's experience when there is so much to be done, that the only way to do it is to sit down and do nothing.
What a pity when editors review a woman's book, that they so often fall into the error of reviewing the woman instead.
The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
O, girls! set your affections on cats, poodles, parrots or lap-dogs; but let matrimony alone. It's the hardest way on earth to getting a living.
There are no little things. "Little things," so called, are the hinges of the universe.
Can anybody tell me why reporters, in making mention of lady speakers, always consider it to be necessary to report, fully and firstly, the dresses worn by them? When John Jones or Senator Rouser frees his mind in public, we are left in painful ignorance of the color and fit of his pants, coat, necktie and vest - and worse still, the shape of his boots. This seems to me a great omission.
Our domestic Napoleons, too many of them, give flattery, bonnets and bracelets to women, and everything else but - justice.
Experience is an excellent doctor, though he never had a diploma.
I want a human sermon. I don't care what Melchisedek, or Zerubbabel, or Kerenhappuk did, ages ago; I want to know what I am to do, and I want somebody besides a theological bookworm to tell me; somebody who is sometimes tempted and tried, and is not too dignified to own it; somebody like me, who is always sinning and repenting; somebody who is glad and sorry, and cries and laughs, and eats and drinks, and wants to fight when they are trodden on, and don't!
I am getting sick of people. I am falling in love with things. They hold their tongues.
To her, the name of father was another name for love.
The cream of enjoyment in this life is always impromptu. The chance walk; the unexpected visit; the unpremeditated journey; the unsought conversation or acquaintance.
The term 'lady' has been so misused, that I like better the old-fashioned term, woman.
I hate the word proper. If you tell me a thing is not proper, I immediately feel the most rabid desire to go 'neck and heels' into it.
Too much indulgence has ruined thousands of children; too much love not one.
Uncles and aunts, and cousins, are all very well, and fathers and mothers are not to be despised; but a grandmother, at holiday time, is worth them all.
Few husbands (and the longer I observe, the more I am convinced of the truth of what I am about to say, and I make no exception in favor of education or station) have the magnanimity to use justly, generously, the power which the law puts in their hands.
A little oil makes machinery work easy.
There are so many ready to write (poor fools!) for the honor and glory of the thing, and there are so many ready to take advantage of this fact, and withhold from needy talent the moral right to a deserved remuneration.
To the Pilgrim Mothers, who not only had their full share of the hardships and privations of pioneer life but also had the Pilgrim Fathers to endure.
No crust so tough as the grudged bread of dependence.
Dear reader, true religion is not gloomy.
Hoary-headed old Winter, I have had enough of you!
Everything in the country, animate and inanimate, seems to whisper, be serene, be kind, be happy. We grow tolerant there unconsciously.
Oh! to be a child again. My only treasures, bits of shell and stone and glass. To love nothing but maple sugar. To fear nothing but a big dog. To go to sleep without dreading the morrow. To wake up with a shout. Not to have seen a dead face. Not to dread a living one. To be able to believe.
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