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?

a sarcastic expression, on a beast, is far more sinister than rage.

My field-mouse had made a set of brand-new tracks; here and there they etched themselves, following the brown flowers. It seemed as if uncommon spirits had seized their little maker, for sometimes he had leaped a yard, the festive mite! There was no other track pursuing; the leaps must have been mere joy.

I love old moons. There is something humanized about them; they are dulled a little, and rich in color. One can stare all night at an old moon.

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.