I long ago discovered that you can't TELL about Pollyanna. The minute you try to, she sounds priggish and preachy, and--impossible. Yet you and I know she is anything but that.

Be glad. Be good. Be brave.

You lose such a lot of time just sleeping ... when you might just be living! ... It seems such a pity we can't live nights too.

The sun was slowly setting in the west, casting golden beams of light into the somber old room.

... there is something about everything that you can be glad about, if you keep hunting long enough to find it.

... if God took the trouble to tell us eight hundred times to be glad and rejoice, He must want us to do it—SOME.

Oh, but Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, you haven't left me any time at all just to- to live.