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.

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.

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

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.

timeliness is an enemy to art.

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!