Bare Twigs In April Enhance Our Pleasure;

I Have Been An "official" All My Life, Without The Least Turn For It. I Never Could Attain A True Official Manner, Which Is Highly Artificial And Handles Trifles With Ludicrously Disproportionate Gravity.

Before A Day Was Over, Home Comes The Rover, For Mother's Kiss - Sweeter This Than Any Other Thing!

Solitude Is Very Sad, Too Much Company Twice As Bad.

A Man Who Keeps A Diary Pays, Due Toll To Many Tedious Days; But Life Becomes Eventful—then, His Busy Hand Forgets The Pen. Most Books, Indeed, Are Records Less Of Fulness Than Of Emptiness.

Autumn's The Mellow Time.