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O month when they who love must love and wed.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.
If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.
As soon as I began, it seemed impossible to write fast enough – I wrote faster than I would write a letter – two thousand to three thousand words in a morning, and I cannot help it.
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer’s best of weather And autumn’s best of cheer.