Oliver Wendell Holmes

Little I ask; my wants are few, I only want a hut of stone, (A very plain brownstone will do,) That I may call my own.

Wake in our breast the living fires, The holy faith that warmed our sires; Thy hand hath made our nation free; To die for her is serving Thee.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say.

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

There is that glorious epicurean paradox uttered by my friend the historian, in one of his flashing moments: "Give us the luxuries of life, and we will dispense with its necessaries." To this must certainly be added that other saying of one of the wittiest of men: "Good Americans when they die go to Paris."

Descartes commanded the future from his study more than Napoleon from the throne.

But Memory blushes at the sneer, And Honor turns with frown defiant, And Freedom, leaning on her spear, Laughs louder than the laughing giant.

Man's mind once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimension.

Each of us has to work out his salvation in his own way. The most that another can do is to be able to give a helping hand.

You hear that boy laughing?-you think he's all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all.