Happiness... she loves, to see men at work. She loves sweat, weariness, self sacrifice. She will be found not in places but lurking in cornfields and factories; and hovering over littered desks; she crowns the unconscious head of the busy child.
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I sometimes think we expect too much of Christmas Day. We try to crowd into it the long arrears of kindliness and humanity of the whole year. As for me, I like to take my Christmas a little at a time, all through the year. And thus I drift along into the holidays--let them overtake me unexpectedly--waking up some fine morning and suddenly saying to myself Why this is Christmas Day
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Friendship is neither a formality nor a mode it is rather a life.
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Life is too brief. I had a friend whom I intended to know better. Yesterday he died.
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Friendship is neither a formality nor a mode: it is rather a life.
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Talk of joy there may be things better than beef stew and baked potatoes and home-made bread -- there may be.
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Looking back, I have this to regret, that too often when I loved, I did not say so.
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We fail far more often by timidity than by over-daring.
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Adventure is not outside a man it is within.
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Adventure is not outside; it is within.
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