November at its best - with a sort of delightful menace in the air.

the breeze brought us a faint sound, as of a distant rat, a huge and mystic rat, gnawing, maybe, at the horizon!

Songs are usually unfit for whistling - indeed, whistling (except to the person doing it) is unbearable.

What a strange joy it was to talk, to fish gleefully into the past and fling its fragments about us, with the unfailing aroma of pleasantness that pasts always seem to possess!

timeliness is an enemy to art.

How different a loved and familiar spot appears, when viewed with the eye of probable guests.

But I shall like my battle. This sort of day puts one in mood for it. Plenty of wood in the shed, jam and potatoes and apples in the cellar, hay and oats and Cressy in the barn. Pooh - what is winter?