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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

Childhood knows what it wants—to leave childhood behind.

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.

Ah, there are no children nowadays.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

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

Rejoice, young man, while you are young, and let your heart cheer you in the days of your youth. Follow the inclination of your heart and the desire of your eyes, but know that for all these things God will bring you into judgment.