L.M. MontgomeryThinkers

August is the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines.

Dreaming is so much better in a room where there are pretty things.

Laughter is as good as a prayer sometimes.

November is usually such a disagreeable month…as if the year had suddenly found out that she was growing old and could do nothing but weep and fret over it. This year is growing old gracefully…just like a stately old lady who knows she can be charming even with gray hair and wrinkles. We've had lovely days and delicious twilights. This last fortnight has been so peaceful.... How quiet the woods are today…not a murmur except that soft wind purring in the treetops! It sounds like surf on a faraway shore.

October is all red and gold, with mellow mornings when the valleys fill with delicate mists as if the spirit of autumn had poured them in for the sun to drain... amethyst, pearl, silver, rose, and smoke-blue.

September is when that great sweeping wind blows the fogs out of one's soul.

Spring is that time when nothing ever seems impossible.

Tomorrow is fresh, with no mistakes in it.