If you can speak what you will never hear, if you can write what you will never read, you have done rare things. - Henry David Thoreau

This is the month of nuts and nutty thoughts, —that November whose name sounds so bleak and cheerless. Perhaps its harvest of thought is worth more than all the other crops of the year.

A warm, dripping rain, heard on ones umbrella as on a snug roof, and on the leaves without, suggests comfort. We go abroad with a slow but sure contentment, like turtles under their shells.

Society is commonly too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each other. We meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are.