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Anne Bosworth Greene

  • It was a heavenly day, aflame with autumn.

  • November at its best — with a sort of delightful menace in the air.

  • But I shall like my battle. This sort of day puts one in mood for it. Plenty of wood in the shed, jam and potatoes and apples in the cellar, hay and oats and Cressy in the barn. Pooh — what is winter?

  • A farm is like a very large and extended baby. It takes a great deal of time and very little mentality.

  • ... the breeze brought us a faint sound, as of a distant rat, a huge and mystic rat, gnawing, maybe, at the horizon!

  • Fingers get habits — have memories of their own.

  • My field-mouse had made a set of brand-new tracks; here and there they etched themselves, following the brown flowers. It seemed as if uncommon spirits had seized their little maker, for sometimes he had leaped a yard, the festive mite! There was no other track pursuing; the leaps must have been mere joy.

  • My morning went for little except a successful filling of the wastebasket ...

  • How different a loved and familiar spot appears, when viewed with the eye of probable guests.

  • What a strange joy it was to talk, to fish gleefully into the past and fling its fragments about us, with the unfailing aroma of pleasantness that pasts always seem to possess!

  • We had told each other a great deal in those two looks ... A dog with whom one has such moments ceases to be a dog; he is an individual, lifted to real intimacy.

  • For that dog does worry. I see it in his eyes; and anybody that is sweet enough to worry with you — why, there are few people in the world one counts upon for that!

  • The thing one resents about winter is its inactivity; the perpetual sameness of ice-armored hills and snow-blanketed woods. Great things, of course, may be going on underneath; but nature wears a mask, is icily non-committal.

  • ... timeliness is an enemy to art.

  • With writing ... you must keep in the habit. After a lapse it will take you not an hour, but a week, a month, maybe, to find your mood again — that mood in which things drop from heaven. There's no forcing it; you can't set your notions in front of you, and stare at them till they take shape; they have to come to you whether you ask them or not. ... And you have to be in the habit of that mood! Of inspiration!

  • I love old moons. There is something humanized about them; they are dulled a little, and rich in color. One can stare all night at an old moon.

  • Songs are usually unfit for whistling — indeed, whistling (except to the person doing it) is unbearable ...

  • ... a sarcastic expression, on a beast, is far more sinister than rage.

  • Never till one gray evening last week, when the world seemed cold and dreary, did I identify the robin as the Beethoven of birds. His cheeriness, his habit of singing when other choristers are abed, are of course familiar; but the sweet reasonableness of that song, noble, true, and strong, had never appealed to me as it did while I stood listening, quite alone.

  • The wild apple trees were one shout of joy ...

Anne Bosworth Greene, U.S. writer

(1878 - 1961)