The days have never been long enough to do the things I would like to do. Every year has held more of interest than the year before.

Many a good beginning makes a bad ending.

We heap up around us things that we do not need as the crow makes piles of glittering pebbles.

The incurable optimism of the farmer who throws his seed on the ground every spring, betting it and his time against the elements, seemed inextricably to blend with the creed of her pioneer forefathers that "it is better farther on"-- only instead of farther on in space, it was farther on in time, over the horizon of the years ahead instead of the far horizon of the west.

There is no comfort anywhere for anyone who dreads to go home.

But in the east the sky was pale and through the gray woods came lanterns with wagons and horses, bringing Grandpa and Grandma and aunts and uncles and cousins.

The only stupid thing about words is the spelling of them.