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

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?

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!

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

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.

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

The thing one resents about winter is its inactivity; the perpetual sameness of ice-armored hills and snow-blanketed woods. Great things, of course, may be going on underneath; but nature wears a mask, is icily non-committal.