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

I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I've never been able to believe it. I don't believe a rose WOULD be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage.

When I make up my mind to do a thing it stays made up.

I know I haven't much sense or sobriety, but I've got what is ever so much better — the knack of making people like me.

In daylight I belong to the world . . . in the night to sleep and eternity. But in the dusk I'm free from both and belong only to myself . . . and you

After all," Anne had said to Marilla once, "I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.

I'd rather look ridiculous when everybody else does than plain and sensible all by myself.