I really believe some people save their bright thoughts, as being too precious for conversation. What do you think an admiring friend said the other day to one that was talking good things, — good enough to print? “Why,” said he, “you are wasting merchantable literature, a cash article, at the rate, as nearly as I can tell, of fifty dollars an hour.” The talker took him to the window and asked him to look out and tell what he saw.
   "Nothing but a very dusty street,“ he said, "and a man driving a sprinkling-machine through it.”
   "Why don’t you tell the man he is wasting that water? What would be the state of the highways of life, if we did not drive our thought-sprinklers through them with the valves open, sometimes?

And now flutes with many stops breathed forth in sweet accord a Lydian air. But though their strains charmed the hearts of the spectators with their sweetness, Venus was sweeter far; and she began to move gently and to advance with slow and lingering step and body lightly swaying to and fro and softly bowing head, and with delicate gestures she kept time to the sound of the flutes and made signs with eyes now mildly closed, now flashing threats, and sometimes all her dancing was in her glances.