I’m like Kipling’s cat – I walk by my wild lone and wave my wild tail where so it pleases me.
I suppose we’ll get used to being grownup in time. There won’t be so many unexpected things about it by and by–though, after all, I fancy it’s the unexpected things that give spice to life.
There isn’t any devil in a good dog. That’s why they’re more lovable than cats, I reckon. But I’m darned if they’re as interesting.
No... it’s lovely here when the dark is your friend, isn’t it? When you turn on the light, it makes the dark your enemy... and it glowers in at you resentfully.
Well, one can’t get over the habit of being a little girl all at once,” said Anne gaily. “You see, I was little for fourteen years and I’ve only been grown-uppish for scarcely three. I’m sure I shall always feel like a child in the woods.
Having adventures comes naturally to some people. You just have a gift for them or you don’t have – Anne Shirley.
I saved his life, and when you’ve saved a creature’s life you’re bound to love it. It’s next thing to giving life.
In geometry Anne met her Waterloo. “It’s perfectly awful stuff, Marilla,” she groaned. “I’m sure I’ll never be able to make heads or tail of it. There is not scope for imagination in it at all.
Is there laughter in your face yet, Rilla? I hope so. The world will need laughter and courage more than ever in the years that will come next. I don’t want to preach – this isn’t any time for it.
Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots!
I don’t like reading about martyrs because they always make me feel petty and ashamed... ashamed to admit I hate to get out of bed on frosty mornings and shrink from a visit to the dentist!
Emotion shook Rilla from head to foot. Joy – happiness – sorrow – fear – every passion that had wrung her heart in those four long years seemed to surge up in her soul for a moment as the deeps of being were stirred. She had tried to speak; at first voice would not come. Then – “Yeth,” said Rilla.
I think this story-writing business is the foolishest yet,” scoffed Marilla. “You’ll get a pack of nonsense into your heads and waste time that should be put to your lessons. Reading stories is bad enough but writing them is worse.
I’m afraid concerts spoil people for everyday life.
But you needn’t try to make us believe you can chloroform a cat,” laughed Anne. “It was all the fault of the knothole,” protested Phil. “It was a good thing the knothole was there,” said Aunt Jamesina rather severely. “Kittens HAVE to be drowned, I admit, or the world would be overrun. But no decent, grown-up cat should be done to death – unless he sucks eggs.
Those who knew Anne best felt, without realizing that they felt it, that her greatest attraction was the aura of possibility surrounding her... the power of future development that was in her. She seemed to walk in an atmosphere of things about to happen. As.
April came tiptoeing in beautifully that year with sunshine and soft winds for a few days; and then a driving northeast snowstorm dropped a white blanket over the world.
Was not – should not – a “career” be something splendid, wonderful, spectacular at the very least, something varied and exciting? Could my long, uphill struggle, through many quiet, uneventful years, be termed a “career”?
The Donald Fraser of The Story Girl was Donald Montgomery, and Neil Campbell was David Murray, of Bedeque. The only embroidery I permitted myself in the telling of the tale was to give Donald a horse and cutter. In reality, what he had was a half-broken steer, hitched to a rude, old wood-sled, and it was with this romantic equipage that he hied him over to Richmond Bay to propose to Nancy!
She felt a wonderful lightness of spirit, a soul-stirring joy in mere existence.