A cold in the head in June is an immoral thing.

[Anne, commenting on city life] "I think I would probably come to the conclusion that I'd like it for a while... but in the end, I'd still prefer the sound of the wind in the firs across the brook more than the tinkling of crystal.

I don't like green Christmases. They're not green—they're just nasty faded browns and grays.

I've done my best, and I begin to understand what is meant by 'the joy of strife'. Next to trying and winning, the best thing is trying and failing.

There are a great many people who do not understand things so there is no use in telling them.

There are many worse friends than the soft, silent, furry, cat-folk.

Our sacrifice is greater than his," cried Rilla passionately. "Our boys give only themselves. We give them.