Such Hours Are Beautiful To Live, But

Mrs. Jo Did Not Mean The Measles, But That More Serious Malady Called Love, Which Is Apt To Ravage Communities, Spring And Autumn, When Winter Gayety And Summer Idleness Produce Whole Bouquets Of Engagements, And Set Young People To Pairing Off Like The Birds.

Love Is Apt To Make Lunatics Of Even Men And Saints.

Self-pity In Its Early Stages Is As Snug As A Feather Mattress. Only When It Hardens Does It Become Uncomfortable.

I'm Afraid I Couldn't Like Him Without A Spice Of Human Naughtiness.

Happy Is The Son Whose Faith In His Mother Remains Unchallenged.