Whence comes eternal truths? They are written in the rocks, they are breathed out of the soft, South wind; they are painted in the sunset, they speak in the flowers and the tiny blade of grass, they twinkle in distant stars. Ages go by and yet man grasps but one, here and there. They are messengers to every man, gifted or untaught. He who seizes but one and embalms it has done a greater service to mankind than the mightiest king.
Prohibition is a frozen dream, real life a red-hot time.
Inquisitiveness is but another name for the Auditor General.
Capital account is a cavern wherein politicians hide their sins.
The summer girl, in the biggest wind, is never blown away from a man.