Edgar Fawcett

January is here with eyes that keenly glow, a frost-mailed warrior striding a shadowy steed of snow. And last December drear, with piteous low-drooped head. In a voice of desolation crying out, the year is dead. And so, with changeful gear, with a smile or frown or song, the months, in strange variations, are ever… Lees verder Edgar Fawcett

E. B. White

‘Why did you do all this for me?’ he asked.’I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.’ ‘You have been my friend,’ replied Charlotte. ‘That in itself is a tremendous thing.’

Patty Duke

I’ve come to believe that whoever I am didn’t start in December , and isn’t going to end on whatever that mysterious date is in the future.