One Can Never Consent To Creep When

The Hands Of Those I Meet Are Dumbly Eloquent To Me. The Touch Of Some Hands Is An Impertinence. I Have Met People So Empty Of Joy, That When I Clasped Their Frosty Finger-tips, It Seemed As If I Were Shaking Hands With A Northeast Storm. Others There Are Whose Hands Have Sunbeams In Them, So That Their Grasp Warms My Heart. It May Be Only The Clinging Touch Of A Child's Hand; But There Is As Much Potential Sunshine In It For Me As There Is In A Loving Glance For Others. A Hearty Handshake Or A Friendly Letter Gives Me Genuine Pleasure.

What Induces A Child To Learn But His Delight In Knowing?

Avoiding Danger Is No Safer In The Long Run Than Exposure.

Happiness Is Like The Mountain Summit. It Is Sometimes Hidden By Clouds, But We Know It Is There.

In A Word, Literature Is My Utopia. Here I Am Not Disfranchised. No Barrier Of The Senses Shuts Me Out From The Sweet, Gracious Discourse Of My Book-friends. They Talk To Me Without Embarrassment Or Awkwardness. The Things I Have Learned And The Things I Have Been Taught Seem Of Ridiculously Little Importance Compared With Their "large Loves And Heavenly Charities.