A hobby a day keeps the doldrums away.
A mother’s hardest to forgive. Life is the fruit she longs to hand you Ripe on a plate. And while you live, Relentlessly she understands you.
The knowingness of little girls, is hidden underneath their curls.
The trouble with gardening is that is does not remain an avocation. It becomes an obsession.
In a successful marriage, there is no such thing as one’s way. There is only the way of both, only the bumpy, dusty, difficult, but always mutual path.
Praise is warming and desirable. But it is an earned thing. It has to be deserved, like a hug from a child.
Compromise, if not the spice of life, is its solidity. It is what makes nations great and marriages happy.
When blithe to argument I come, Though armed with facts, and merry, May Providence protect me from The fool as adversary, Whose mind to him a kingdom is Where reason lacks dominion, Who calls conviction prejudice And prejudice opinion.
Gossip isn’t scandal and it’s not merely malicious. It’s chatter about the human race by lovers of the same. Gossip is the tool of the poet, the shop-talk of the scientist, and the consolation of the housewife, wit, tycoon and intellectual. It begins in the nursery and ends when speech is past.
These are my daughters, I suppose. But where in the world did the children vanish?
Oh, high is the price of parenthood, and daughters may cost you double. You dare not forget, as you thought you could, that youth is a plague and a trouble.
The ability to forget a sorrow is childhood’s most enchanting feature.
If childhood is still a state, it is now chiefly a state of confusion.
Seventy is wormwood, Seventy is gall But its better to be seventy, Than not alive at all.
A lady is smarter than a gentleman, maybe, she can sew a fine seam, she can have a baby, she can use her intuition instead of her brain, but she can’t fold a paper in a crowded train.
Gossip isn’t scandal and it’s not merely malicious. It’s chatter about the human race by lovers of the same.
Nothing fails like success; nothing is so defeated as yesterday’s triumphant Cause.
One applauds the industry of professional philanthropy. But it has its dangers. After a while the private heart begins to harden. We fling letters into the wastebasket, are abrupt to telephoned solicitations. Charity withers in the incessant gale.
There are books that one needs maturity to enjoy just as there are books an adult can come on too late to savor.
Children are forced to live very rapidly in order to live at all. They are given only a few years in which to learn hundreds of thousands of things about life and the planet and themselves.