I do come home at Christmas. We all do, or we all should. We all come home, or ought to come home, for a short holiday -- the longer, the better -- from the great boarding school where we are forever working at our arithmetical slates, to take, and give a rest.

Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home!

I have always thought of Christmas time as a good time. A kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time. The only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely.

A loving heart is the truest wisdom.

I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.

A man who could build a church, as one may say, by squinting at a sheet of paper.

We need never be ashamed of our tears.

It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.

With affection beaming out of one eye, and calculation shining out of the other.

The first rule of business is: Do other men for they would do you.

Accidents will occur in the best regulated families.

There is a wisdom of the head, and a wisdom of the heart.

I do not know the American gentleman, god forgive me for putting two such words together.