Mischief Makers Quotes

Messers Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs Purveyors of Aids to magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present THE MARAUDER'S MAP

Jaime Cortae. Thirteen. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Lover of peanut butter. Sometime angel, sometime mischief maker. Always Jaime.

I've always been the clown and mischief maker of the family; I've always had to pay double for my sins: once with scoldings and then again with my own sense of despair. I'm no longer satisfied with the meaningless affection or the supposedly serious talks.

Mmm. You strike me as a jam-maker.” “Really? Why?” He grins down at me. Up close, his eyes look almost black, especially shadowed as they are by long eyelashes. Right now, they shine with barely restrained mirth. “Because you’re so sweet,” he says in a mock-saccharine voice. The mischief in his eyes makes me forget, for a too-brief second, that I am a slave and that my brother is in prison and that everyone else I love is dead. Laughter explodes out of me like a song, and my eyes blur and tear. A snort escapes, which sets my dance partner to laughing, which makes me laugh harder. Only Darin ever made me laugh like this. The release is foreign and familiar, like crying, but without the pain. “What’s

Little queen,” Madoc says with a crooked smile. Despite not sharing blood with Oak, the mischief in his expression is familiar. “All grown up and come to devour your maker. I can’t say as I blame you.

Little queen,' Madoc says with a crooked smile. Despite not sharing blood with Oak, the mischief in his expression is familiar. 'All grown up and come to devour your maker. I can't say as I blame you.

The making of gardens and parks goes on with civilization all over the world, and they increase both in size and number as their value is recognized. Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where Nature may heal and cheer and give strength to body and soul alike. This natural beauty-hunger is made manifest in the little windowsill gardens of the poor, though perhaps only a geranium slip in a broken cup, as well as in the carefully tended rose and lily gardens of the rich, the thousands of spacious city parks and botanical gardens, and in our magnificent National Parks—the Yellowstone, Yosemite, Sequoia, etc.—Nature's sublime wonderlands, the admiration and joy of the world. Nevertheless, like anything else worth while, from the very beginning, however well guarded, they have always been subject to attack by despoiling gain-seekers and mischief-makers of every degree from Satan to Senators, eagerly trying to make everything immediately and selfishly commercial, with schemes disguised in smug-smiling philanthropy, industriously, sham-piously crying, "Conservation, conservation, panutilization," that man and beast may be fed and the dear Nation made great. Thus long ago a few enterprising merchants utilized the Jerusalem temple as a place of business instead of a place of prayer, changing money, buying and selling cattle and sheep and doves; and earlier still, the first forest reservation, including only one tree, was likewise despoiled. Ever since the establishment of the Yosemite National Park, strife has been going on around its borders and I suppose this will go on as part of the universal battle between right and wrong, however much of its boundaries may be shorn, or its wild beauty destroyed.

The superego, Freud wrote, is the “mischief maker which prevents the ego’s coming to a friendly understanding with the instincts.” It

Ghetto Good Girl or Triple-G for short. She keeps me out of trouble and typically roots for me to do what’s right. The mischief maker, my Fairy Hoochie Mama, resides on my left shoulder. She generally wants the exact opposite.

Exu eats anything in the way of food, but he drinks only one thing: straight rum. At the crossroads Exu waits sitting upon the night to take the most difficult road, the narrowest, the most winding, the bad road, it is generally held, for all Exu wants is to frolic, to make mischief. Exu, the great mischief-maker, Vadinho's patron deity.

The cat was a mischief-maker with a penchant for knocking things over,

Ruxandra pulled the blanket down just far enough to see the two girls shut the door behind them, stuff something under it to block any light, and throw a blanket over the shutters. A flint sparked one, twice, and a taper flared to life, lighting the faces of her friends. Adela was a short blonde whose breasts pushed against her nightdress and were the despair of the nuns’ attempts to instill modesty. Her parents had sent her to the convent in desperate hopes to keep her from scandal. And between her sweet, round face and her ability to lie shamelessly, she almost managed to make the nuns believe they were being successful. Valeria was slim and dark, a mischief-maker whose pranks had gotten her in trouble more than once. They were both her lovers. Adela called it practice for when they had husbands. Valeria called it wonderful. The nuns declared it a sin in no uncertain terms. And while Ruxandra did her best to obey the nuns in most matters, and to turn her thoughts to God and do his good work, she could not stop loving the girls. From the moment she’d first held Adela’s hand, she’d known that, whatever else their feelings were for each other, they were too sweet to be sinful.

For her, being an American was loathing America, but loving America was something he could not let go of any more than he could let go of loving his father and his mother, any more than he could have let go of his decency. How could she "hate" this country when she had no conception of this country? How could a child of his be so blind as to revile the "rotten system" that had given her own family every opportunity to succeed? To revile her "capitalist" parents as though their wealth were the product of anything other than the unstinting industry of three generations. The men of three generations, including even himself, slogging through the slime and stink of a tannery. The family that started out in a tannery, at one with, side by side with, the lowest of the low - now to her "capitalist dogs." There wasn't much difference and she knew it, between hating America and hating them. He loved the America she hated and blamed for everything that was imperfect in life and wanted violently to overturn, he loved the "bourgeois values" she hated and ridiculed and wanted to subvert, he loved the mother she hated and had all but murdered by doing what she did. Ignorant fucking bitch! The price they had paid! Why shouldn't he tear up this Rita Cohen letter? They were back! The sadistic mischief-makers with their bottomless talent for antagonism who had extorted from him the Audrey Hepburn scrapbook, the stuttering diary, and the ballet shoes, these delinquent young brutes calling themselves "revolutionaries" who had so viciously played with his hopes five years back had decided the time had again rolled around to laugh at Swede Levov.

What it amounts to, is you've been listed minus zero, strictly useless, absolutely worthless. The tip off came when he didn't even bother to have you thrown out. I guess that puts you right at the bottom, even lower than Carp and the other mischief-makers. At least they get some attention, they rate high enough to get bounced. All you're getting is the look; the look that says in no uncertain terms that you've been junked.

KNOWN ABILITIES: Empath [DON’T BELIEVE ANYTHING ELSE MY MOM TELLS YOU] RESIDENCE: The Shores of Solace and Candleshade [ANYONE WANNA TRADE LIVES WITH ME?] IMMEDIATE FAMILY: Lord Cassius Sencen (father); Lady Gisela Sencen (mother) [AKA: WORST. PARENTS. EVER!] MATCH STATUS: Unregistered [TRY NOT TO BE TOO HEARTBROKEN, PEOPLE] [THOUGH I GOTTA SAY: I DON’T REALLY GET WHY EVERYONE PAYS SO MUCH ATTENTION TO THIS.] EDUCATION: Current Foxfire prodigy [AND PROUD DETENTION RECORD–HOLDER] NEXUS: No longer required [BECAUSE I’M COOL LIKE THAT] PATHFINDER: Not assigned. Restricted to Leapmasters and home crystals. [HA, THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK!] SPYBALL APPROVAL: None [BUT I HAVE FRIENDS WITH CONNECTIONS, THAT’S ALL I’M SAYING.…] MEMBER OF THE NOBILITY: No [THANK GOODNESS] TITLE: None [UM, HELLO, WHAT ABOUT LORD HUNKYHAIR? THAT’S A THING!] NOBLE ASSIGNMENT: None [MASTER MISCHIEF-MAKER] SIGNIFICANT CONNECTIONS: Fealty-sworn member of the Black Swan; former Wayward at Exillium; son to one of the leaders of the Neverseen [SWORN PROTECTOR OF THE MYSTERIOUS MISS F] ASSIGNED BODYGUARD(S): Ro (ogre) [AND SHE KNOWS, LIKE, 500,000 WAYS TO KILL YOU! SO IT’S REALLY NOT A GOOD IDEA TO MESS WITH US!]

ADVENTURERS AVAUNT! There is no greater plague upon the lands than the chartered adventurer. Crown-sanctioned mischief makers, brigands whose thefts, casual murders, rapine and pillage are excused where the same things done by a cobbler or a milkmaid would be answered with severings of hands or other appendages, plus brandings—or all of those and hanging or death by drawing between four horses. Yet there is no more necessary plague. Adventurers make even kings think twice about cruelly oppressing all who pass within reach, teach prudence to high priests and even rogue wizards, and are almost the only curb upon the numbers of dragons and other large and monstrous beasts. On the whole, I think the balance comes out about even. What makes us keep adventuring charters instead of burning them along with their bearers is the entertainment adventurers afford the populace. In hamlets and at waymoots, after one’s grumbled about the weather, taxes, the latest rumors of war and orc raids, and the all-too-paltry gossip about the indiscretions of royalty and nobility, there’s little else to talk about but the foolish escapades of adventurers. Thundaerlel Maurlatrimm Four Decades of Innkeeping published in the Year of the Highmantle

One mistake is enough for all your life. So, where is the place of a mischief-maker?

With the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret in attendance, the Beatles headlined the Royal Variety Show, on which John, ever the silver-tongued mischief-maker, famously said, "Will the people in the cheaper seats clap your hands? And the rest of you, if you'll just rattle your jewelry.

Pasteur equally as mischief-makers. As late as 1883, Michel Peter, a Parisian physician held in high esteem by his colleagues, went so far as to denounce Pasteur’s work to his face, at an address at the National Academy of Medicine. “What do I care about your microbes? . . . I have said, and I repeat, that all this research on microbes are not worth the time spent on them or the fuss made about them, and that after all the work nothing would be changed in medicine, there would only be a few extra microbes. Medicine . . . is threatened by the invasion of incompetent, and rash persons given to dreaming.” But as the discoveries mounted, these holdouts were increasingly marginalized.

For those who recall Charlie Hebdo as it really, rankly was, the act of turning its murdered cartoonists into pawns in a game of another kind of public piety—making them martyrs, misunderstood messengers of the right to free expression—seems to risk betraying their memory. Wolinski, Cabu, Honoré: like soccer players in Brazil, each was known in France by a single name. A small irreverent smile comes to the lips at the thought of the flag being lowered, as it was throughout France last week, for these anarchist mischief-makers, and they would surely have roared at the irony of being solemnly mourned and marched for by former President Nicolas Sarkozy and the current President, François Hollande.

intention, rearing up against a piety. For those who recall Charlie Hebdo as it really, rankly was, the act of turning its murdered cartoonists into pawns in a game of another kind of public piety—making them martyrs, misunderstood messengers of the right to free expression—seems to risk betraying their memory. Wolinski, Cabu, Honoré: like soccer players in Brazil, each was known in France by a single name. A small irreverent smile comes to the lips at the thought of the flag being lowered, as it was throughout France last week, for these anarchist mischief-makers, and they would surely have roared at the irony of being solemnly mourned and marched for by former President Nicolas Sarkozy and the current President, François Hollande.

At the foot of this innumerable faggots of wood were piled. The pile was purposely built high so that the executioner could not shorten her sufferings, as was often done. A placard was set over the mass of plaster and faggots with the words, “Jeanne, self-styled the Maid, liar, mischief-maker, abuser of the people, diviner, superstitious, blasphemer of God, presumptuous, false to the faith of Christ, boaster, idolater, cruel, dissolute, an invoker of devils, apostate, schismatic, heretic.

I’m Karen, daughter of Hermes,” Karen recited proudly. She took another bite of the roll as if to rub it in. “Oh, and did he trick your mother into sleeping with him, or was it consensual?” I shot back, happy to have found a way to return the insult. Karen looked as though I slapped her in the face. To make matters worse, this section of the cafeteria fell silent, a natural lull in the conversation. I could feel dozens and dozens of eyes on me, but I kept my eyes on Karen, waiting for her response. Hermes was a God known for being a liar and mischief-maker. The insult shot true, and I would not back down. “My mother was one of Hermes’s most beautiful lovers,” Karen said as she leaned in, speaking sharp and low. “She was his favorite.” “Really?” I scoffed. “His most beautiful, huh? That’s quite an insult to Aphrodite, who he managed to woo and make love to. Because if your mother really was more beautiful than Aphrodite, I would get one of those 23 and Me kits and get your DNA checked.

Word arrived from a more distant district that its public crier had likewise observed the turret clock striking the hour before he had finished his new year’s recital. What made this notable was that his district’s clock employed a different mechanism, one in which the hours were marked by the flow of mercury into a bowl. Here the discrepancy could not be explained by a common mechanical fault. Most people suspected fraud, a practical joke perpetrated by mischief-makers. I had a different suspicion, a darker one that I dared not voice, but it decided my course of action; I would proceed with my experiment.

President Vladimir Putin has evolved a “hybrid foreign policy, a strategy that mixes normal diplomacy, military force, economic corruption and a high-tech information war.” Indeed, on any given day, the United States has found itself dealing with everything from cyberattacks by Russian intelligence hackers on the computer systems of the U.S. Democratic Party, to disinformation about what Russian troops, dressed in civilian clothes, are doing in Eastern Ukraine, to Russian attempts to take down the Facebook pages of widows of its soldiers killed in Ukraine when they mourn their husbands’ deaths, to hot money flows into Western politics or media from Russian oligarchs connected to the Kremlin. In short, Russia is taking full advantage of the age of accelerating flows to confront the United States along a much wider attack surface. While it lives in the World of Order, the Russian government under Putin doesn’t mind fomenting a little disorder—indeed, when you are a petro-state, a little disorder is welcome because it keeps the world on edge and therefore oil prices high. China is a much more status quo power. It needs a healthy U.S. economy to trade with and a stable global environment to export into. That is why the Chinese are more focused on simply dominating their immediate neighborhood. But while America has to deter these two other superpowers with one hand, it also needs to enlist their support with the other hand to help contain both the spreading World of Disorder and the super-empowered breakers. This is where things start to get tricky: on any given day Russia is a direct adversary in one part of the world, a partner in another, and a mischief-maker in another.

Du'a for Victory or Help He said: "My Lord! Give me victory over the people who are Mufsidun (those who commit great crimes and sins, oppressors, tyrants, mischief-makers, corrupts). Rabbi onsurnee AAalaalqawmi almufsideen Surat Al-`Ankabut (The Spider) 29:30

Crying fish balls, I hope she loses that look soon before she gives us away as mischief makers.

When it was time to sell the Constitution to the American people, the Framers made majority rule central to their argument, especially in the Federalist Papers, which were authored by Madison, Hamilton, and John Jay. In Federalist 22, Hamilton takes on the advocates of supermajority rule, explaining that “what at first sight may seem a remedy, is, in reality, a poison.” It would be wrong “to subject the sense of the greater number to that of the lesser,” because if “a pertinacious minority can control the opinion of a majority,” the result would be “tedious delays; continual negotiation and intrigue; contemptible compromises of the public good.” Decision-makers would sometimes fail to find consensus, he acknowledged, since there are times when issues “will not admit of accommodation.” But in such instances, if the minority was allowed to block the majority, the government’s “situation must always savor of weakness, sometimes border upon anarchy,” Hamilton wrote. When consensus failed, Hamilton argued, the “public business” must “go forward.” Allowing a minority faction to stop the majority invited all kinds of mischief and interference, he warned, explaining that such a system “gives greater scope to foreign corruption, as well as to domestic faction, than that which permits the sense of the majority to decide.”28

He took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly, and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” And at once, thin ink lines began to spread like a spider’s web from the point that George’s wand had touched. They joined each other, they crisscrossed, they fanned into every corner of the parchment; then words began to blossom across the top, great, curly green words, that proclaimed: Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present THE MARAUDER’S MAP It was a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds.

Also connected to this fall of the first man and woman was an animal called the Mo‘opeloa. Mo‘opeloa means The Serpent of Lies or Flattery (Mo‘o - serpent, lizard or reptile and pelo - to flatter, tell tall tales or lie). Mo‘o not only means lizard in Samoan but can mean envy.19 This crafty and lying reptile was also known as Ilioha. A part of this chant says, “The Ilioha, mischief-maker, stands on the land; He has caught the chief Kū-Honua, and Polo-Haina, the woman, the tabu chiefs of Kāne…

So, young Harry,’ said Fred, in an uncanny impersonation of Percy, ‘mind you behave yourself.’ ‘See you in Honeydukes,’ said George, winking. They left the room, both smirking in a satisfied sort of way. Harry stood there, gazing at the miraculous map. He watched the tiny ink Mrs Norris turn left and pause to sniff at something on the floor. If Filch really didn’t know … he wouldn’t have to pass the Dementors at all … But even as he stood there, flooded with excitement, something Harry had once heard Mr Weasley say came floating out of his memory. Never trust anything that can think for itself, if you can’t see where it keeps its brain. This map was one of those dangerous magical objects Mr Weasley had been warning against … Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers … but then, Harry reasoned, he only wanted to use it to get into Hogsmeade, it wasn’t as though he wanted to steal anything or attack anyone … and Fred and George had been using it for years without anything horrible happening … Harry traced the secret passage to Honeydukes

He groped about for several minutes, growling like a bear and stamping his feet at anyone who ventured too close. Isabella rushed at him and retreated several times, giggling each time he missed. Then before Adelaide quite knew what had happened, the little mischief-maker shoved her from behind and launched her directly into Gideon’s path. Adelaide trod on his foot and banged into his chest, but Gideon wrapped his arms about her and somehow kept them upright. “Well, who do I have here?” His voice remained jovial, but she could feel his heartbeat accelerate under her palm. Did he know? Gideon’s hand moved up her back and lingered at the base of her neck. “Definitely feels like a member of the female persuasion.” His fingers toyed with the loose tendrils at her nape. Adelaide closed her eyes against the sensations assaulting her. His touch traveled to her shoulder, and she forced her eyes open. If he knew it was her, why was he taking so long to claim his victory? “Let me see …” He traced one of the rosettes on the edge of her sleeve. “I don’t recall Mrs. Chalmers wearing a flower like this.” Warmth from his hand shocked her momentarily as he quickly passed over the small section of her arm covered by neither gown nor glove. Calluses grazed her skin, leaving tingles in their wake. “Too tall to be Bella.” He explored her elbow, her wrist, and finally clasped her hand where it lay pressed against his shirtfront. “Mrs. Garrett’s dress had long sleeves, I believe, so this gloved arm must belong to …” His thumb drew a small circle against her palm. “Miss Proctor.” He’d known all along, the scoundrel.

Would you be maker, mischief, or muse?

It would have been easy to understand the terrorist element in Kashmir and the said agents of Pakistan objecting to the hosting of the flag in a public place, but it is difficult to forgive Omar Abdullah, the grandson of the Sher-E-Kashmir, temporarily joining that odious class of mischief makers. The only extenuating circumstance for young Omar is that he lost his courage to fight the practitioners of mayhem and murder whose number seems to be increasing in the valley under the influence of Pakistani incitement and money. Some people may well forgive the inexperienced Omar, but it is impossible to condone the despicable action and attitude of the Congress, the entire central government and of course the prime minister and the president of the Congress Party. The opinion of Rahul Gandhi, touted as the heir apparent, is also of interest here. Did he concur with the decision of the government that the flag should not be hoisted at Lal Chowk? If he did, he should have the honesty to proclaim to the people of India why he indulged in such shameful action.

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But you may know the mischief-maker by the warped malignancy of his language as easily as by the warped malignancy of his face and voice. His fury is without restraint and without magnanimity—and it is aimed, not at checking the offense, but at starting a pogrom against the offender. The mischief-maker would rather the evil were not cured at all than that it were cured quietly and without violence. His evil lust of wrath cannot be sated unless somebody is hounded down, beaten, and trampled on, and a savage war dance executed upon the body.