No wise man ever wished to be younger.

The boy is, of all wild beasts, the most difficult to manage. 

I was born at a very early age. Before I had time to regret it, I was four and a half years old.

No time to marry, no time to settle down, I’m a young woman, and ain’t done runnin’ round.

No one’s serious at seventeen.

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.

A sick child is always the mother’s property; her own feelings generally make it so.

There comes a time in every rightly constructed boy’s life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure.

The young man must store up, the old man must use.

Most men employ the first years of their life in making the last miserable.

Childhood has no forebodings—but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.

A dissolute and intemperate youth hands down the body to old age in a worn-out state.

The distinction between children and adults, while probably useful for some purposes, is at bottom a specious one, I feel. There are only individual egos, crazy for love.