To Sit For One's Portrait Is Like

Christmas Is The Day That Holds All Time Together.

Death, Which We Are Accustomed To Consider An Evil, Really Acts For Us The Friendliest Part, And Takes Away The Commonplace Of Existence.

In Winter, When The Dismal Rain Comes Down In Slanting Lines, And Wind, That Grand Old Harper, Smote His Thunder-harp Of Pines.

One Never Hugs One's Good Luck So Affectionately As When Listening To The Relation Of Some Horrible Misfortunes Which Has Overtaken Others.

If You Do Your Fair Day's Work, You Are Certain To Get Your Fair Day's Wage - In Praise Or Pudding, Whichever Happens To Suit Your Taste.