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.

Youth is the time to go flashing from one end of the world to the other both in mind and body, to try the manners of different nations, to hear the chimes at midnight.

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

Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

Ah, there are no children nowadays.

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

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.

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

The young always have the same problem—how to rebel and conform at the same time. They have now solved this by defying their elders and copying one another.

The thing that impresses me most about America is the way parents obey their children.

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

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

No one’s serious at seventeen.