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.

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?

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

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

A farm is like a very large and extended baby. It takes a great deal of time and very little mentality.

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

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