Politics makes strange bedfellows

Let us celebrate the soil. Most men toil that they may own a piece of it; they measure their success in life by their ability to buy it.

No man but feels more of a man in the world if he have a bit of ground that he can call his own. However small it is on the surface, it is four thousand miles deep; and that is a very handsome property.

There was never a nation great until it came to the knowledge that it had nowhere in the world to go for help.

To own a bit of ground, to scratch it with a hoe, to plant seeds and watch, their renewal of life, this is the commonest delight of the race, the most satisfactory thing a man can do.

It is fortunate that each generation does not comprehend its own ignorance. We are thus enabled to call our ancestors barbarous.

Mud-pies gratify one of our first and best instincts. So long as we are dirty, we are pure.