The best wine has its lees.
All men's faults are not written on their foreheads, and it's quite as
well they are not, or hats would need very wide brims; yet as sure as
eggs are eggs, faults of some sort nestle in every bosom. There's no
telling when a man's sins may show themselves, for hares pop out of the
ditch just when you are not looking for them. A horse that is weak in
the legs may not stumble for a mile or two, but it is in him, and the
driver had better hold him up well. The tabby cat is not lapping milk
just now, but leave the dairy door open, and see if she is not as bad a
thief as the kitten. There's fire in the flint, cool as it looks: wait
till the steel gets a knock at it, and you will see. Every body can read
that riddle, but it is not every body that will remember to keep his
gunpowder out of the way of the candle.
If we would always recollect that we live among men who are imperfect,
we should not be in such a fever when we find out our friend's failings;
what's rotten will rend, and cracked pots will leak. Blessed is he who
expects nothing of poor flesh and blood, for he shall never be
disappointed. The best of men are men at the best, and the best wax will
melt.
"It is a good horse that never stumbles,
And a good wife that never grumbles."
HOME.
That word _home_ always sounds like poetry to me. It rings like a peal
of bells at a wedding, only more soft and sweet, and it chimes deeper
into the ears of my heart.
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