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!

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.

Fingers get habits - have memories of their own.

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?

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

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!

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