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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

Ah, there are no children nowadays.

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

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.

Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

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

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.