Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

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

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

I’ve never understood why people consider youth a time of freedom and joy. It’s probably because they have forgotten their own.

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.

Ah, there are no children nowadays.

Childhood knows what it wants—to leave childhood behind.

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.

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

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

Grown up, and that is a terribly hard thing to do. It is much easier to skip it and go from one childhood to another.

No wise man ever wished to be younger.

Blessed are the young, for they shall inherit the national debt.