Ah, there are no children nowadays.

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

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 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.

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

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

Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

No wise man ever wished to be younger.

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

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

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

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