Witch-Laughter.

Wyeth, Untitled, 1952

November--with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. With murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. With dear days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified serenity of folded hands and closed eyes--days full of a fine, pale sunshine that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper-trees and glimmered among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing the colonnades of the pines. Days with a high-sprung sky of flawless turquoise. Days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the landscape and dream about the lake. But days, too, of the wild blackness of great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees. What cared they? Old Tom had built his roof well, and his chimney drew.

L.M. Montgomery, from The Blue Castle

Simply.

Art.

The fussy commander, who is for ever interfering in the province of his subordinates, will never train others in the art of command.

Field Marshal Viscount Bernard Montgomery

Interesting.

Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makes me feel glad to be alive -- it's such an interesting world. It wouldn't be half so interesting if we know all about everything, would it?

Lucy Maude Montgomery

Wander.

Goubitz, Evening at Castricum, 1938

Dark hills against a hollow crocus sky

Scarfed with its crimson pennons, and below 

The dome of sunset long, hushed valleys lie

Cradling the twilight, where the lone winds blow 

And wake among the harps of leafless trees 

Fantastic runes and mournful melodies. 

The chilly purple air is threaded through

With silver from the rising moon afar, 

And from a gulf of clear, unfathomed blue

In the southwest glimmers a great gold star 

Above the darkening druid glens of fir 

Where beckoning boughs and elfin voices stir. 

And so I wander through the shadows still,

And look and listen with a rapt delight, 

Pausing again and yet again at will

To drink the elusive beauty of the night, 

Until my soul is filled, as some deep cup, 

That with divine enchantment is brimmed up. 

Lucy Maud Montgomery

Witch-laughter.

Octobers.

October was a beautiful month at Green Gables, when the birches in the hollow turned as golden as sunshine and the maples behind the orchard were royal crimson and the wild cherry trees along the lane put on the loveliest shades of dark red and bronzy green, while the fields sunned themselves in aftermaths.

Anne reveled in the world of color about her.

“Oh, Marilla,” she exclaimed one Saturday morning, coming dancing in with her arms full of gorgeous boughs, “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn’t it? Look at these maple branches. Don’t they give you a thrill—several thrills? I’m going to decorate my room with them.”

“Messy things,” said Marilla, whose aesthetic sense was not noticeably developed. “You clutter up your room entirely too much with out-of-doors stuff, Anne. Bedrooms were made to sleep in.”

“Oh, and dream in too, Marilla. And you know one can dream so much better in a room where there are pretty things. I’m going to put these boughs in the old blue jug and set them on my table.”

L.M. Montgomery, from Anne of Green Gables

Rest.

McCubbin, Midday Rest, 1888

Come, rest awhile, and let us idly stray
In glimmering valleys, cool and far away.

Come from the greedy mart, the troubled street,
And listen to the music, faint and sweet,

That echoes ever to a listening ear,
Unheard by those who will not pause to hear­

The wayward chimes of memory's pensive bells,
Wind-blown o'er misty hills and curtained dells.

One step aside and dewy buds unclose
The sweetness of the violet and the rose;

Song and romance still linger in the green,
Emblossomed ways by you so seldom seen,

And near at hand, would you but see them, lie
All lovely things beloved in days gone by.

You have forgotten what it is to smile
In your too busy life­, come, rest awhile.

Lucy Maud Montgomery