For fifteen years Mr. Polly was a respectable shopkeeper in Fishbourne. Years they were in which every day was tedious, and when they were gone it was as if they had gone in a flash.

In England we have come to rely upon a comfortable time-lag of fifty years or a century intervening between the perception that something ought to be done and a serious attempt to do it.

What a huge inaccessible lumber-room of thought and experience we amounted to, I thought; how much we are, how little we transmit.

I want to go ahead of Father Time with a scythe of my own.

He wanted—what did he want most in life? I think his distinctive craving is best expressed as fun—fun in companionship.

Every time I see an adult on a bicycle, I no longer despair for the future of the human race.