Mrs Brown's Quotes

When God made man she was practicing.

Happiness is pretty simple: someone to love, something to do, something to look forward to.

[Tyson] looked him over with that massive baby-brown eye. “You are not dead. I like it when you are not dead.” Ella fluttered to the ground and began preening her feathers. “Ella found a dog,” she announced. “A large dog. And a Cyclops.” Was she blushing? Before Percy could decide, his black mastiff pounced on him, knocking Percy to the ground and barking so loudly that even Arion backed up. “Hey, Mrs. O'Leary,” Percy said. “Yeah, I love you, too, girl. Good dog.” Hazel squeaked. “You have a hellhound named Mrs. O'Leary?” “Long story.

She criticized, “There are no excuses for why it could not be better. The devil’s in the details,” Viola tried to teach him. That made him mad and she heard him mutter, “Now’s I know why they call you Mrs. Rough-ner!” He went out and used hand scissors for the edges making the yard crisp and pleasant for all to see. Then, Viola just had to smile to herself because she guessed she had pushed him to his limit! But at last, the task was perfect and then, right after that, he left their home again.

Mr. Shepherd, ye cannot stop a bad thought from coming into your head. But ye need not pull up a chair and bide it sit down." - Mrs. Brown

Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle. M. B. loves a fair gentlema. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschole with the ear trumpet loves old Mrs VErschoyle with the turnedin eye. The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King loves Her Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. You love a certain person. And this person loves that other person because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody.

People should think twice before making rude remarks," said Mrs. Lambchop. "And then not make them at all.

Men are so superior about their Latin," said Mrs. Blair. "But all the same I notice that when you ask them to translate inscriptions in old churches, they can never do it! They hem and haw, and get out of it somehow.

In your modesty you seem to consider that writers are of different blood and bone from yourselves; that they know more of Mrs Brown than you do. Never was there a more fatal mistake. It is this division between reader and writer, this humility on your part, these professional airs and graces on ours, that corrupt and emasculate the books which should be the healthy offspring of a close and equal alliance between us.

I understand very clearly," Anya replied, a pensive look on her face. Peter's mom continued, "Anya, I suspect you're going through similar feelings. There are so many nice young men vying for your attention, it can get bewildering. I was there, so I know what it's like for you." "Thank you for saying that, Mrs. Brown. I believe I know what they all want, but I'm just not ready to get serious yet.

Once when I visited Buddy I found Mrs. Willard braiding a rug out of strips of wool from Mr. Willard’s old suits. She’d spent weeks on that rug, and I had admired the tweedy browns and greens and blues patterning the braid, but after Mrs. Willard was through, instead of hanging the rug on the wall the way I would have done, she put it down in place of her kitchen mat, and in a few days it was soiled and dull and indistinguishable from any mat you could buy for under a dollar in the five and ten.                 And I knew that in spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant dinners a man showered on a woman before he married her, what he secretly wanted when the wedding service ended was for her to flatten out underneath his feet like Mrs. Willard’s kitchen mat.

MRS. BROWNING.

No one is ever safe. So why not live as much as you can?

Mrs. Forbes said that hating yellow and brown is just being silly. And Siobhan said that she shouldn't say things like that and everyone has favorite colors. And Siobhan was right. But Mrs. Forbes was a bit right, too. Because it is sort of being silly. But in life you have to take lots of decisions and if you don't take decisions you would never do anything because you would spend all your time choosing between things you could do. So it is good to have a reason why you hate some things and you like others. It is like being in a restaurant like when Father takes me out to a Berni Inn sometimes and you look at the menu and you have to choose what you are going to have. But you don't know if you are going to like something because you haven't tasted it yet, so you have favorite foods and you choose these, and you have foods you dno't like and you don't choose these, and then it is simple.

As Mrs. Barrett Browning says, ‘The world of books is still the world.

There was nobody. Her words faded. So a rocket fades. Its sparks, having grazed their way into the night, surrender to it, dark descends, pours over the outlines of houses and towers; bleak hillsides soften and fall in. But though they are gone, the night is full of them; robbed of colour, blank of windows, they exist more ponderously, give out what the frank daylight fails to transmit—the trouble and suspense of things conglomerated there in the darkness; huddled together in the darkness; reft of the relief which dawn brings when, washing the walls white and grey, spotting each windowpane, lifting the mist from the fields, showing the red brown cows peacefully grazing, all is once more decked out to the eye; exists again. I am alone; I am alone!

Flush has grown an absolute monarch and barks one distracted when he wants a door opened,” Mrs. Browning wrote. “Robert,” she continued, “declares that the said Flush considers him, my husband, to be created for the especial purpose of doing him service, and really it looks rather like it.

Indeed, for my own part, though I have been repeatedly told by persons for whom I have the greatest respect, that Miss Brown is an insignificant chit, and Mrs. White has nothing but her petit minois chiffonne, and Mrs. Black has not a word to say for herself; yet I know that I have had the most delightful conversations with Mrs. Black (of course, my dear Madam, they are inviolable): I see all the men in a cluster round Mrs. White's chair: all the young fellows battling to dance with Miss Brown; and so I am tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great compliment to a woman.

Write about the cow, Mrs. Spaulding's heavy eyelids, the smell of vanilla flavoring in a brown bottle. That's where the magic mountains begin.

humans are much more like sheep than cats. They’re easily led and they don’t look where they’re going until it’s too late.

. . . Mrs. Lambchop sighed and shook her head. "You're at the office all day, having fun," she said. "You don't realize what I go through with the boys. They're very difficult." Kids are like that," Mr. Lambchop said. "Phases. Be patient, dear.

small log cabin once stood near the creek, but as the Jones family’s fortunes

Cazenovia

PAST CLAWS AND EFFECT

They’re walking around in clothing but they’re still the same animals who lived in caves, feared the dark, and smashed one another over the head for beans.

He thought how strange life was. The certainties vanish. What takes their place is resourcefulness and thanking God for life.

the times had become more ruthlessly commercial. Even

Every place has unsolved crimes because people don’t want to know.

Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.

Humans are fundamentally irrational. They use what precious rationality they have justifying their irrational behavior. A

full bloom, the pastures turning an impossible emerald green, she

To work at what you love—a heaping up of joys.

Some people grow older and more cynical. Some people become just the opposite. Life hurts without hope, and cynicism, once a luxury, becomes unaffordable.

He declares his privacy is temporary and justified, and promises to explain before the wedding. That is all that anyone knows for certain, but Mrs MacNab will tell you a great deal more than even she is certain of. You know how the tales grow like grass on such a patch of ignorance as that.

And as they spoke - lo and behold! - there was a knock at the door, and there stood a small, stout figure dressed in rusty black; and she said, 'Good evening, Mr and Mrs Brown, I am Nurse Matilda.

I have always believed a window into a person’s true nature is how they treat animals, children, and the elderly. A person who mistreats animals isn’t worth knowing. A person who mistreats children—especially those who abuse and kill them—should be shot without wasting any taxpayer money for a trial and for feeding them in prison. When a perpetrator of heinous crimes can live in a climate-controlled environment and eat three meals a day while good people go hungry, something is very wrong. Americans are paying for serial killers, rapists, and child abusers to live better than they do.

I HAVE SOME QUESTIONS ABOUT KING TRITON. Specifically, King, why are you elderly but with the body of a teenage Beastmaster? How do you maintain those monster pecs? Do they have endocrinologists under the sea? Because I am scheduling you some bloodwork... ...Question: How come, when they turn back into humans at the end of Beauty and the Beast, Chip is a four-year-old boy, but his mother, Mrs. Potts, is like 107? Perhaps you're thinking, "Lindy, you are remembering it wrong. That kindly, white-haired, snowman-shaped Mrs. Doubtfire situation must be Chip's grandmother." Not so, champ! She's his mom. Look it up. She gave birth to him four years ago... As soon as you become a mother, apparently, you are instantly interchangeable with the oldest woman in the world, and / or sixteen ounces of boiling brown water with a hat on it. Take a sec and contrast Mrs. Pott's literally spherical body with the cut-diamond abs of King Triton, father of seven.

You know, it’s hell to work with a cat. They really are smarter than we are. Have you ever gotten anyone to feed you, pay your bills, give you the best chair in the house, tell you how beautiful you are, and groom you daily? Me, neither. Yours,

I was amused and surprised by the odd, visceral details that returned to me with each work: Pa bringing the girls real white sugar wrapped in brown paper in Little House in the Big Woods, Sally J. Freeman having a man-o-war wrapped around her foot (who even know what a man-o-war was?), Claudia choosing macaroni at the Automat in From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. These strong, charged images that have never left me - they're often stronger than memories I have of my old life.

You always was a nice chap," said Mrs. Brown. "On'y I'm so buried under me fat I feel half ashamed to tell you so. Love don't seem dainty on a fat woman. Nothin's going to break up this home not even if you lose yer head, but it'll make it easier if you keep it. On'y leave that child to me. She's got more to come. You think the Grand National's the end of all things, but a child that can do that can do more when she's grown. On'y keep her level, keep her going quiet. We'll live this down presently an' you'll see

Well, when I think of thirty-five years of your life . . ." Mrs. Goodwater pursed her lips and blinked her eyes, counting. "That's about twelve thousand seven hundred and seventy-five days, or counting three of them per day, twelve thousand-odd commotions, twelve thousand much-ados and twelve thousand calamaties. It's a full rich life you lead, Elmira Brown. Shake hands!" "Get away!" Elmira fended her off.

Mrs. Whichcoat came in the back door with an empty wire basket. She hung it up in the pantry and took off her brown garden gloves. “All the hens have stopped laying,” she said. “I didn’t get one egg.” There was a note of despair in her voice but no surprise. It was as though she had warned all along that there would be treachery one day in the hen house.

Every time you behold the Blue Ridge Mountains, every time you feel a snowflake on your eyelashes, every time you see a frog on a lily pad, every time a friend gives you his hand, Brooks, God loves you. You’re surrounded by His love. We look for it in all the wrong places as we pray for worldly success. We say that must be proof of God’s love. Some people pray not for material success but for an easy life.” He shook his head. “No, even our pains are a sign of His love, for they will lead you to the right path, if you’ll only listen.

While industry and cars cause pollution, removing trees exacerbates the problem.

All’s well here. Hope your life is full of mice, moles, voles, butterflies, and the occasional inattentive bird. In Catitude, Sneaky Pie

Corruption is like a lily—brush against it, however lightly, and some of the pollen smears on you. Therefore choose your friends and your employers wisely.

Mr. and Mrs. Brown first met Paddington on a railway platform. In fact, that was how he came to have such an unusual name for a bear, for Paddington was the name of the station.

To her [Mrs. Quince], food symbolizes the exchange of love. We nourish who we love. [Nell Brown]

work

I think those who do what they love don’t grow older like other people.

Life treads on life, and heart on heart; We press too close in church and mart To keep a dream or grave apart. MRS. BROWNING.

Only a human would die for an idea.

Life’s too short to try and understand cold-blooded creatures.

the further humans move from nature, the crazier they get. In

Nothing sadder on this earth than a human being without a cat. She

Spending is worse than pain, she thought; it lasts longer.

As for describing the smell of a spaniel mixed with the smell of torches, laurels, incense, banners, wax candles and a garland of rose leaves crushed by a satin heel that has been laid up in camphor, perhaps Shakespeare, had he paused in the middle of writing Antony and Cleopatra — But Shakespeare did not pause. Confessing our inadequacy, then, we can but note that to Flush Italy, in these the fullest, the freest, the happiest years of his life, meant mainly a succession of smells. Love, it must be supposed, was gradually losing its appeal. Smell remained. Now that they were established in Casa Guidi again, all had their avocations. Mr. Browning wrote regularly in one room; Mrs. Browning wrote regularly in another. The baby played in the nursery. But Flush wandered off into the streets of Florence to enjoy the rapture of smell. He threaded his path through main streets and back streets, through squares and alleys, by smell. He nosed his way from smell to smell; the rough, the smooth, the dark, the golden. He went in and out, up and down, where they beat brass, where they bake bread, where the women sit combing their hair, where the bird-cages are piled high on the causeway, where the wine spills itself in dark red stains on the pavement, where leather smells and harness and garlic, where cloth is beaten, where vine leaves tremble, where men sit and drink and spit and dice — he ran in and out, always with his nose to the ground, drinking in the essence; or with his nose in the air vibrating with the aroma. He slept in this hot patch of sun — how sun made the stone reek! he sought that tunnel of shade — how acid shade made the stone smell! He devoured whole bunches of ripe grapes largely because of their purple smell; he chewed and spat out whatever tough relic of goat or macaroni the Italian housewife had thrown from the balcony — goat and macaroni were raucous smells, crimson smells. He followed the swooning sweetness of incense into the violet intricacies of dark cathedrals; and, sniffing, tried to lap the gold on the window- stained tomb. Nor was his sense of touch much less acute. He knew Florence in its marmoreal smoothness and in its gritty and cobbled roughness. Hoary folds of drapery, smooth fingers and feet of stone received the lick of his tongue, the quiver of his shivering snout. Upon the infinitely sensitive pads of his feet he took the clear stamp of proud Latin inscriptions. In short, he knew Florence as no human being has ever known it; as Ruskin never knew it or George Eliot either.

The Agency was doubtful, because they had already sent a lot of nurses and nannies and governesses to Mr. and Mrs. Brown's family. 'The person you want,' they said, 'is Nurse Matilda.

Lindsey There is the usual hive of activity in the Brannon household this morning. Mrs Brannon is busy making breakfast for her daughter, Lindsey, making it just as she likes it: two slices of toast with home-made raspberry jam, a hard-boiled egg, shell peeled and the egg cut into slices, a cup of fresh Earl Grey tea with one brown sugar and a touch of milk, with a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice on the side – oranges bought from the greengrocer down the road. The same breakfast she has lovingly made for her daughter for over forty years.

had learned how to use her breasts to get exactly what she wanted from men, hence the nickname “Nightingale,” a euphemism for prostitutes, all of whom knew how to use their bosoms. This was

Mina. You’re the one who saved Brody!” Her confusion disappeared and her face lit with happiness. “We have much to thank you for…oh, Brody, watch out!” she practically shouted. Just when Mina had begun to wonder about Mrs. Carmichael’s strange re-enactment, she heard a sickening crunch of metal on metal and turned to see her bike crushed to smithereens beneath the wheels of a black car. “My bike!” Mina groaned. “Brody!” Mrs. Carmichael yelled simultaneously. Mina froze. She didn’t know what was worse—facing her long-time crush with a brown chocolate milk stain on her jacket, or the fact that he had just run over her pathetic bike with his expensive sports car. The driver’s door opened, and Brody jumped out of the car. “Mina, I’m sorry! Are you okay?

Knitting her reddish-brown hairy stocking, with her head outlined absurdly by the gilt frame, the green shawl which she had tossed over the edge of the frame, and the authenticated masterpiece by Michael Angelo, Mrs. Ramsay smoothed out what had been harsh in her manner a moment before, raised his head, and kissed her little boy on the forehead. "Let us find another picture to cut out," she said.

There she sits in the corner of the carriage—that carriage which is travelling, not from Richmond to Waterloo, but from one age of English literature to the next, for Mrs. Brown is eternal, Mrs. Brown is human nature, Mrs. Brown changes only on the surface, it is the novelists who get in and out—there she sits and not one of the Edwardian writers has so much as looked at her. They have looked very power- fully, searchingly, and sympathetically out of the window ; at factories, at Utopias, even at the decoration and upholstery of the carriage ; but never at her, never at life, never at human nature.

I tried to imagine what it would be like if Constantin were my husband. It would mean getting up at seven and cooking him eggs and bacon and toast and coffee and dawdling about in my nightgown and curlers after he’d left for work to wash up the dirty plates and make the bed, and then when he came home after a lively, fascinating day he’d expect a big dinner, and I’d spend the evening washing up even more dirty plates till I fell into bed, utterly exhausted. This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A’s, but I knew that’s what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard’s mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself. Once when I visited Buddy I found Mrs Willard braiding a rug out of strips of wool from Mr Willard’s old suits. She’d spent weeks on that rug, and I had admired the tweedy browns and greens and blues patterning the braid, but after Mrs Willard was through, instead of hanging the rug on the wall the way I would have done, she put it down in place of her kitchen mat, and in a few days it was soiled and dull and indistinguishable from any mat you could buy for under a dollar in the Five and Ten. And I knew that in spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant dinners a man showered on a woman before he married her, what he secretly wanted when the wedding service ended was for her to flatten out underneath his feet like Mrs Willard’s kitchen mat.

Susan and Harry when they were young. Consumption became tuberculosis. Wasting became cancer. Malaise became stroke, blood disorder became leukemia. If anyone remarried, the second spouse hung on the wall to the sunroom, not

Well?” He thought about it now. “I think a woman’s sphere can be taxing, and perhaps for you, as you indicate, boring. I would hate to think of you being bored! I— I am rather afraid I would bore you. I am not a wealthy or an educated man.” “But you are a brave one. You fought, and I suppose you will again.” Catherine stared intently into his eyes. “Captain Schuyler, if you would let me be me, you would never bore me. I truly do want to ride, dance, laugh, and

I have now come to the conclusion never again to think of marrying, and for this reason; I can never be satisfied with anyone who would be blockhead enough to have me. —Abraham Lincoln, in a letter to Mrs. Orville H. Browning April 1st, 1838

He held up a DVD in a blue cardboard envelope, which bore Pete’s distinctive scrawl. “Can’t believe the technology.” “If I have a good Christmas I’ll buy myself a DVD player. Still have a year of car payments left.” She paused. “Prices keep coming down.

The boy waited, played near her, caught several of the little brown butterflies which abounded, and then said as he waited again, “I like going on better than biding still. Will you soon start again?” “I don't know.” “I wish I might go on by myself,” he resumed, fearing, apparently, that he was to be pressed into some unpleasant service. “Do you want me any more, please?” Mrs. Yeobright made no reply. “What shall I tell Mother?” the boy continued. “Tell her you have seen a broken-hearted woman cast off by her son.

What did it clarify for you?" Pinky asked. Mrs. Brown laughed. "Told me to keep doing and saying what I dam well please, and not be bamboozled by anyone. Life is too short - no mulling things over for a dozen years or so. What about you?" "I wasn't on the ship

I have always cultivated a feeling of humane indulgence for foreigners. They do not possess our blessings and advantages, and they are, for the most part, brought up in the blind errors of Popery. It has also always been my precept and practice, as it was my dear husband's precept and practice before me (see Sermon XXIX. in the Collection by the late Rev. Samuel Michelson, M.A.), to do as I would be done by. On both these accounts I will not say that Mrs. Rubelle struck me as being a small, wiry, sly person, of fifty or thereabouts, with a dark brown or Creole complexion and watchful light grey eyes. Nor

I turned to go home. Street lights winked down the street all the way to town. I had never seen our neighborhood from this angle. There were Miss Maudie’s, Miss Stephanie’s—there was our house, I could see the porch swing—Miss Rachel’s house was beyond us, plainly visible. I could even see Mrs. Dubose’s. I looked behind me. To the left of the brown door was a long shuttered window. I walked to it, stood in front of it, and turned around. In daylight, I thought, you could see to the postoffice corner. Daylight… in my mind, the night faded. It was daytime and the neighborhood was busy. Miss Stephanie Crawford crossed the street to tell the latest to Miss Rachel. Miss Maudie bent over her azaleas. It was summertime, and two children scampered down the sidewalk toward a man approaching in the distance. The man waved, and the children raced each other to him. It was still summertime, and the children came closer. A boy trudged down the sidewalk dragging a fishingpole behind him. A man stood waiting with his hands on his hips. Summertime, and his children played in the front yard with their friend, enacting a strange little drama of their own invention. It was fall, and his children fought on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose’s. The boy helped his sister to her feet, and they made their way home. Fall, and his children trotted to and fro around the corner, the day’s woes and triumphs on their faces. They stopped at an oak tree, delighted, puzzled, apprehensive. Winter, and his children shivered at the front gate, silhouetted against a blazing house. Winter, and a man walked into the street, dropped his glasses, and shot a dog. Summer, and he watched his children’s heart break. Autumn again, and Boo’s children needed him. Atticus was right. One time he said you never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them. Just standing on the Radley porch was enough.

They would carry their books to the woods and read aloud to one another. At picnic lunches near Cooper’s Bluff, they recited their favorite poems. “In the early days,” Fanny recalled, “we all delighted in Longfellow and Mrs. Browning and Owen Meredith.” Later, they turned to Swinburne, Kipling, Shelley, and Shakespeare. The Roosevelts

The correspondence, thus arranged in chronological order, forms an almost continuous record of Mrs. Browning’s life, from the early days in Herefordshire to her death in Italy in 1861; but in order to complete the record, it has been thought well to add connecting links of narrative, which should serve to bind the whole together into the unity of a biography.

A small container of Rocky Road lands on the counter next to me. “I figured Rocky Road was appropriate to pave the way to brown town,” she says with a laugh. The man in front of me takes his receipt, and the cashier, a younger woman, reaches for our purchases as soon as Banner starts laughing at her own joke. The cashier’s eyes go wide when she comprehends. “Brown Town? Is that up in the foothills, Logan? I’m not sure I’ve heard of it,” a familiar voice says from behind me. Oh, for Christ’s sake. I turn around to face Mrs. Harris, her hands full with a box of tea and a bottle of melatonin, but when I open my mouth to respond, nothing comes out. Banner smiles sweetly and says, “It’s just south of Pussy Ridge. At least, I’m pretty sure it is.” I choke, and the cashier’s face turns red. “Pussy Ridge. I haven’t heard of that either. I’ll have to ask Mr. Harris to get out the Rand McNally so we can take a drive there this weekend. I do love my weekend drives.” I have no idea how Banner is keeping a straight face, but she replies, “I love a good long ride too. Especially when it gets a little rough.” The older woman smiles. “Me too. Emmy has never been a fan, though. She’s always gotten carsick at the littlest bump.” Banner finally grins. “That explains so much about her.” The cashier’s eyes are tearing up as I shove money at her before I bag the ice cream, Doritos, and lube myself. “See you later, Mrs. Harris. You’ll have to let us know how that drive goes.

His deep brown eyes added both confidence and compassion to his looks. He had creases—around his eyelids, his nose, his mouth—that may have originated in sunlight and outdoor work but seemed graven in a love of humanity … The creases were his statement to the world: This man loved life and just as deeply feared losing it or anyone he loved in it. He carried on his shoulders the uneasy fraternal twins of love and responsibility.

I was still walking behind Mrs. Haze through the dining room when, beyond it, there came a sudden burst of greenery – “the piazza," sang out my leader, and then, without the least warning, a blue sea-wave swelled under my heart and, from a mat in a pool of sun, half-naked, kneeling, turning about on her knees, there was my Riviera love peering at me over dark glasses. It was the same child-the same frail, honey-hued shoulders, the same silky supple bare back, the same chestnut head of hair. A polka-dotted black kerchief tied around her chest hid from my aging ape eyes, but not from the gaze of young memory, the juvenile breasts I had fondled one immortal day. And, as if I were the fairy-tale nurse of some little princess (lost, kidnapped, discovered in gypsy rags through which her nakedness smiled at the king and his hounds), I recognized the tiny dark-brown mole on her side. With awe and delight (the king crying for joy, the trumpets blaring, the nurse drunk) I saw again her lovely indrawn abdomen where my southbound mouth had briefly paused; and those puerile hips on which I had kissed the crenulated imprint left by the band of her shorts – that last mad immortal day behind the "Roches Roses." The twenty-five years I had lived since then, tapered to a palpitating point, and vanished.

Many of you remember when Dutch Elm disease swept the East Coast. People in big cities saw the trees die but it didn’t register, in any way at all, that this would compromise oxygen. Think of it, that many trees dying in that short a time span means there is less photosynthesis. Less oxygen is being produced. Therefore pollution in the big cities becomes more pronounced. These basics do not occur to people who work in buildings where the windows don’t open.

My man!” said the stranger, “I can promise you your master will give you a good wigging when he hears that you have sent me away.” “A good—what, sir? “ Brown grew red with indignation; but all the same a chill little doubt stole over him. This personage, who was so very sure of his welcome, might after all turn out to be a person whom he had no right to send away. “I said a wigging, my good man. Perhaps you don’t understand that in England. We do in our place.

I was amused and surprised by the odd, visceral details that returned to me with each work: Pa bringing the girls real white sugar wrapped in brown paper in Little House in the Big Woods, Sally J. Freeman having a man-o-war wrapped around her foot (who even know what a man-o-war wa?), Claudia choosing macaroni at the Automat in From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. These strong, charged images that have never left me - they're often stronger than memories I have of my old life.

Mrs. Brown: Sesin bugüne kadar hayatımda duyduğum en güzel ses, Antonio. Benim sesim ise kasvetli ve boğuk. Pek çok tonunu artık yitirmiş. Bir defa da benim için şarkı söyler misin, Antonio? Antonio: Evet, Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Brown: O zaman şunu da sormak istiyorum sana: Gece ağları atmak üzere denize açıldığında, teknen de bana da bir yer var mı? Antonio: Evet, Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Brown: Ama henüz çok geç sayılmaz, değil mi, Antonio? Biz geri gelirken rüzgâr döner mi dersin? Barda, herkesin gözleri önünde bütün kadehleri kıracağıma, kırılan kadehlerin ses çıkaracağına ve sonra sana döneceğime inanıyor musun? Antonio: Evet, Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Brown: Çıplak ayaklarım yanacak mı? Yüzümü senin gömleğine, tuza, balıkların pullarına gömdüğümde gözyaşlarım akacak mı? Gözyaşlarım akarken dans edebilecek miyim? Antonio: Evet, Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Brown: Peki şarkı söyleyebilecek miyim? Yeniden şarkı söyleyip eski sesimle konuşabileceğim, değil mi Antonio? Antonio: Hayır, Mrs. Brown! Hayır, Mrs. Brown!

It’s a long story,” he said, taking a sip of Mr. Braeburn’s whiskey, “so I will tell only a very condensed version of it. “Mrs. Marsden and I grew up on adjacent properties in the Cotswold. But the Cotswold, as fair as it is, plays almost no part in this tale. Because it was not in the green, unpolluted countryside that we fell in love, but in gray, sooty London. Love at first sight, of course, a hunger of the soul that could not be denied.” Bryony trembled somewhere inside. This was not their story, but her story, the determined spinster felled by the magnificence and charm of the gorgeous young thing. He glanced at her. “You were the moon of my existence; your moods dictated the tides of my heart.” The tides of her own heart surged at his words, even though his words were nothing but lies. “I don’t believe I had moods,” she said severely. “No, of course not. ‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate’—and the tides of my heart only rose ever higher to crash against the levee of my self-possession. For I loved you most intemperately, my dear Mrs. Marsden.” Beside her Mrs. Braeburn blushed, her eyes bright. Bryony was furious at Leo, for his facile words, and even more so at herself, for the painful pleasure that trickled into her drop by drop. “Our wedding was the happiest hour of my life, that we would belong to each other always. The church was filled with hyacinths and camellias, and the crowd overflowed to the steps, for the whole world wanted to see who had at last captured your lofty heart. “But alas, I had not truly captured your lofty heart, had I? I but held it for a moment. And soon there was trouble in Paradise. One day, you said to me, ‘My hair has turned white. It is a sign I must wander far and away. Find me then, if you can. Then and only then will I be yours again.’” Her heart pounded again. How did he know that she had indeed taken her hair turning white as a sign that the time had come for her to leave? No, he did not know. He’d made it up out of whole cloth. But even Mr. Braeburn was spellbound by this ridiculous tale. She had forgotten how hypnotic Leo could be, when he wished to beguile a crowd. “And so I have searched. From the poles to the tropics, from the shores of China to the shores of Nova Scotia. Our wedding photograph in hand, I have asked crowds pale, red, brown, and black, ‘I seek an English lady doctor, my lost beloved. Have you seen her?’” He looked into her eyes, and she could not look away, as mesmerized as the hapless Braeburns. “And now I have found you at last.” He raised his glass. “To the beginning of the rest of our lives.

Just then, I notice Mrs. Mulgrave giving the younger woman beside her a slight push in my direction. "This is my daughter, Maisie. She will be your maid." "Maisie?" I can't help blurting out in astonishment. I hardly recognize her. The past seven years have transformed Maisie from a plain preteen into a beautiful young adult. I didn't expect her to be so... pretty. She wears a black tee with black pants, but the simple clothing and lack of makeup only enhances her looks. She has heavy-lidded deep brown eyes, clear skin with the hint of a tan, the kind of plush pink lips that housewives in my New York hometown would pay good money for, and long brown hair highlighted with strands of gold. Her only adornments are a thick wristwatch and a rectangular pendant hanging on a chain around her neck. I feel a pang of sympathy as I look from mother to daughter. If Maisie's luck had been different---if she'd been born to parents like the Marinos---she could have had the world at her feet, instead of being shut up in a house working as a maid.

See the man they are fitting into the bottom slot. He is coughing badly. No, not pneumonia. Not tuberculosis. Nothing so picturesque. Gently, gently, stretcher-bearers… he is about done. He is coughing up clots of pinky-green filth. Only his lungs, Mother and Mrs. Evans-Mawington. He is coughing well to-night. That is gas. You’ve heard of gas. Haven’t you? It burns and shrivels the lungs to… to the mess you see on the ambulance floor there. He’s about the age of Bertie, Mother. Not unlike Bertie, either, with his gentle brown eyes and fair curly hair. Bertie would look up pleading like that in between coughing up his lungs… The son you have so generously given to the War. Cough, cough, little fair-haired boy. Perhaps somewhere your mother is thinking of you… boasting of the life she has so nobly given… the life you thought was your own, but which is hers to squander as she thinks fit. ‘My boy is not a slacker, thank God.’ Cough away, little boy, cough away. What does it matter, providing your mother doesn’t have to face the shame of her son’s cowardice?

MRS. BENTLEY’S CHORIZO BREAKFAST BURRITOS Servings: 4 INGREDIENTS FOR THE AVOCADO-TOMATO SALSA 1 large avocado, peeled, pitted, and diced ½ cup diced seeded tomatoes, from 1 to 2 tomatoes 1 small shallot, minced (about 2 tablespoons) 1 clove garlic, minced 1 jalapeño pepper, seeded and minced 1 tablespoon fresh lime juice, from 1 lime ½ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon ground cumin ¼ cup fresh chopped cilantro FOR THE BURRITOS 4 large eggs ¼ teaspoon smoked paprika ¼ teaspoon salt ½ lb spicy chorizo removed from casings 1⅓ cups (6 oz) shredded Monterey Jack cheese 4 (10-in) burrito-size flour tortillas Vegetable oil INSTRUCTIONS Make the Avocado-Tomato Salsa: Place all of the ingredients in a medium bowl and mix to combine. Set aside. In a medium bowl, whisk the eggs with the smoked paprika and salt. Set aside. Heat a large nonstick pan over medium-high heat. Add the sausage and cook, stirring frequently, until browned, 4 to 5 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the sausage from the pan to a plate, leaving the drippings in the pan. Reduce the heat to low. Add the eggs and scramble until just cooked

Chapter 3, The Dark Forest....The sound of flowing water echoed in the distance and then the path converged upon a creek full of fast, rippling, white water cascading over brown and red colored rocks. Moss dangled across the pathway and swung back and forth as the trespassers moved under the green vegetation. Bright yellow fingers of sunlight attempted to filter through the dense tundra to touch the moist earth until finally, the appendages of light disappeared completely. “Come children, this way,” called Mrs. Beetle leading her group over a moldy, moss-laden, wood bridge.

Maybe that’s too big of a question. Let’s back up. May Ling has been with you for fourteen months now? What have you done, in the time she’s been with you, to connect her to her Chinese culture?” “Well.” Another pause, a very long one this time. Mr. Richardson willed Mrs. McCullough to say something, anything. “Pearl of the Orient is one of our very favorite restaurants. We try to take her there once a month. I think it’s good for her to hear some Chinese, to get it into her ears. To grow up feeling this is natural. And of course I’m sure she’ll love the food once she’s older.” Yawning silence in the courtroom. Mrs. McCullough felt the need to fill it. “Perhaps we could take a Chinese cooking class at the rec center and learn together. When she’s older.” Ed Lim said nothing, and Mrs. McCullough prattled nervously on. “We try to be very sensitive to these issues wherever we can.” Inspiration arrived. “Like for her first birthday, we wanted to get her a teddy bear. One she could keep as an heirloom. There was a brown bear, a polar bear, and a panda, and we thought about it and decided on the panda. We thought perhaps she’d feel more of a connection to it.

should perhaps make allowances. England isn’t all he remembers it to be. I think he has a rather romantic notion of what “Blighty” should be like, and all this has quite shattered his illusions.’ ‘I dare say,’ said the inspector distractedly, as he made some notes in his notebook. There was a knock on the door and Jenkins entered with a tray of coffee, sandwiches, and some shortbread biscuits. ‘Your luncheon, my lady,’ he said, pointedly ignoring the inspector. ‘Mrs Brown thought you might appreciate some biscuits, too.’ ‘She’s very thoughtful, Jenkins,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Please thank her for us.’ ‘Yes, my lady. Will there be anything else?’ ‘No, Jenkins, thank you.’ ‘Very good, my lady,’ he said with a slight bow. He left as quietly as he had entered. Inspector Sunderland seemed to be on the verge of another tirade, but thought better of it and went to pour the coffee instead. ‘Please,’ I said, stepping forward. ‘Allow me.’ ‘Certainly, miss. If you insist.’ ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ I said, as I poured coffee for the two of them. ‘Just doing my duty.’ ‘Don’t show off, Armstrong,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Pour yourself one, too.’ I curtseyed. ‘Thank you, m’lady. You’re very generous to a poor servant

No person had less animosity than Mrs. Browning; it seems as though she could hardly bring herself to speak harshly of anyone. The omissions that have been made are almost wholly of passages containing little or nothing of interest, or repetitions of what has been said elsewhere; and they have been made with the object of diminishing the bulk and concentrating the interest of the collection, never with the purpose of modifying the representation of the writer’s character. The task of arranging the letters has been more arduous owing to Mrs. Browning’s unfortunate habit of prefixing no date’s, or incomplete ones, to her letters

In record time, I’m out of the shower, hair dripping, my T-shirt sticking to my still-damp body, running out the door to the SUV in the driveway. My dress and Logan’s tux are waiting for us at the palace, where the glam squad will make me presentable. Harry, a young, carefree security guard with shoulder-length brown hair, argues with Bartholomew, a bulkier bodyguard, in the driveway. “You don’t have it in you, mate.” “Oh, I have it in me—you can believe that.” I have no idea what their pissing contest is about, but I don’t have time for it. “You’re both gonna have my foot in your asses if somebody doesn’t drive me to the palace right now!” I yell. They both look shocked. And then they move their asses. “She’s kind of a violent little thing, isn’t she?” Harry says to Logan as he climbs in the backseat with me. Logan just laughs. And looks at me. “You’re going to make a good mum one day.” I shake my head at him. “That’s what you got out of my statement? Really?” “Sure—you sound just like Tommy’s mum and she’s the best one I know.” And something occurs to me—something we haven’t talked about yet. “Do you want that one day?” I imitate Logan’s accent. “To be a da?” “I do.” His face softens. “As long as you’re the mum, I’d like very much to be the da.” My stomach gets warm and fluttery. “Me too. Should probably make me a Mrs. first, though.” Logan kisses my palm, smiling. “That’s the plan.” Good to know.

As Herb sliced his small partridge stuffed with wild rice, the fresh vegetables artfully arranged on his plate by the cook, the conversation flowed. Lucy Fur, standing on her hind legs on the floor, raised a paw, placing it on Herb’s thigh. He cut a small piece of partridge for her, put it on a bread plate, and bent over. No one said a word, since everyone there would have done the same thing. The springer spaniel rejoined them upon hearing the plate scrape the floor. These were animal people. The differences among them were differences of income, age, gender, and the mysteries of personality. But when it came to animals, they were as one. Every single one of them, even Tazio, new to animal ownership, cherished a deep respect for all life.

On the other hand, the militant left, and many socialist intellectuals such as my old friend Ralph Miliband (whose sons were to become important figures in the offices of Prime Minister Tony Blair and Chancellor Gordon Brown), also wrote off the Labour Party until the moment when it had been captured and was ready to become ‘a real socialist party’, whatever that meant. I outraged some of my friends by pointing out that they were not seriously trying to defeat Mrs Thatcher. Whatever they thought, ‘they acted as though another Labour government like the ones we have had before from time to time since 1945 were not just unsatisfactory, but worse than no Labour government … (i.e.) worse than the only alternative government on offer, namely Mrs Thatcher’s

Arthur finished his doughnut as Mrs. Tibble opened the door and turned on the porch light. She gave Arthur and D.W. a big hug. “See you Saturday to rake leaves,” said Arthur. “You’re still alive!” said Francine. “I can’t believe you went in there alone,” said the Brain. “You’re so brave,” said Sue Ellen. “What’s in the bag?” asked Buster. “Probably eyeballs, hearts and brains!” said Francine. “It’s easy to find out,” said Arthur. “Just close your eyes and reach in unless you’re too scared.” “We’ve been to every house now. Can we take the shortcut home through the cemetery?” asked D.W. “The cemetery! On Halloween! Are you guys crazy?” asked Francine. “Follow me,” said Arthur as he marched ahead. “The cemetery is a great place. People are just dying to get in.

My eye keeps escaping towards the big blue lacquered door that I've had painted in a trompe-l'oeil on the back wall. I would like to call Mrs. Cohen back and tell her there's no problem for her son's bar mitzvah, everything's ready: I would like to go through that door and disappear into the garden my mind's eye has painted behind it. The grass there is soft and sweet, there are bulrushes bowing along the banks of a river. I put lime trees in it, hornbeams, weeping elms, blossoming cherries and liquidambars. I plant it with ancient roses, daffodils, dahlias with their melancholy heavy heads, and flowerbeds of forget-me-nots. Pimpernels, armed with all the courage peculiar to such tiny entities, follow the twists and turns between the stones of a rockery. Triumphant artichokes raise their astonished arrows towards the sky. Apple trees and lilacs blossom at the same time as hellebores and winter magnolias. My garden knows no seasons. It is both hot and cool. Frost goes hand in hand with a shimmering heat haze. The leaves fall and grow again. row and fall again. Wisteria climbs voraciously over tumbledown walls and ancient porches leading to a boxwood alley with a poignant fragrance. The heady smell of fruit hangs in the air. Huge peaches, chubby-cheeked apricots, jewel-like cherries, redcurrants, raspberries, spanking red tomatoes and bristly cardoons feast on sunlight and water, because between the sunbeams it rains in rainbow-colored droplets. At the very end, beyond a painted wooden fence, is a woodland path strewn with brown leaves, protected from the heat of the skies by a wide parasol of foliage fluttering in the breeze. You can't see the end of it, just keep walking, and breathe.

eyes, golden-brown curls and crimson cheeks. She laughed too much to please her father's congregation and had shocked old Mrs. Taylor, the disconsolate spouse of several departed husbands, by saucily declaring—in the church-porch at that—"The world ISN'T a vale of tears, Mrs. Taylor. It's a world of laughter." Little dreamy Una was not given to laughter. Her braids of straight, dead-black hair betrayed no lawless kinks, and her almond-shaped, dark-blue eyes had something wistful and sorrowful in them. Her mouth had a trick of falling open over her tiny white teeth, and a shy, meditative smile occasionally crept over her small face. She was much more sensitive to public opinion than Faith, and had an uneasy consciousness that there was something askew in their way of living. She longed to put it right, but did not know how. Now and then she dusted the furniture—but it was so seldom she could find the duster because it was never in the same place twice. And when

She held the moth to the light. It was nearer brown than yellow,and she remembered having seen some like it in the boxes that afternoon.It was not the one needed to complete the collection,but Elnora might want it,so Mrs. Comstock held on. Then the Almighty was kind,or nature was sufficient,as you look at it,for following the law of its being when disturbed,the moth again threw the spray by which some suppose it attracts its kind,and liberally sprinkled Mrs. Comstock's dress front and arms. From that instant,she became the best moth bait ever invented. Every Polyphemus in range hastened to her,and other fluttering creatures of night followed. The influx came her way. She snatched wildly here and there until she had one in each hand and no place to put them. She could see more coming,and her aching heart,swollen with the strain of long excitement,hurt pitifully.She prayed in broken exclamations that did not always sound reverent,but never was a human soul more intense earnest.

INTRODUCTION TO GENDER AND SOCIETY The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir A classic analysis of the Western conception of the woman. Feminism Is for Everybody by bell hooks A primer about the power and potential of feminist action. We Should All Be Feminists by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Feminism redefined for the twenty-first century. QUEER THEORY AND INTERSECTIONAL FEMINISM Gender Trouble by Judith Butler A classic, and groundbreaking, text about gender and the boundaries of identity. Gender Outlaw by Kate Bornstein A 1990s-era memoir of transition and nonbinary identity. This Bridge Called My Back ed. Cherríe Moraga and Gloria Anzaldúa A collection of essays about the intersections between gender, class, sexuality, and race. Sister Outsider by Audre Lorde A landmark collection of essays and speeches by a lauded black lesbian feminist. The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston A memoir of growing up as a Chinese American woman. MODERN HISTORY How We Get Free: Black Feminism and the Combahee River Collective ed. Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor A history of the Combahee River Collective, a group of radical black feminists operating in the 1960s and 1970s. And the Band Played On by Randy Shilts Investigative reportage about the beginning of the AIDS crisis. A Queer History of the United States by Michael Bronski An LGBT history of the United States, from 1492 to the present. CONTEMPORARY QUESTIONS Blurred Lines: Rethinking Sex, Power, and Consent on Campus by Vanessa Grigoriadis An exploration of the effects of the sexual revolution in American colleges. The End of Men: And the Rise of Women by Hanna Rosin A book about the shifting power dynamics between men and women. Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay Essays about the author’s experiences as a woman and our cultural understanding of womanhood. All the Single Ladies by Rebecca Traister An investigation into the lives of twenty-first-century unmarried women. GENDER AND SEXUALITY IN FICTION Rubyfruit Jungle by Rita Mae Brown A groundbreaking lesbian coming-of-age novel, originally published in 1973. Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin A classic of morality and desire, set in 1950s Paris, about an American man and his relationship with an Italian bartender. Angels in America by Tony Kushner A Pulitzer Prize–winning play about the Reagan-era AIDS epidemic. Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson A coming-of-age and coming-out novel about a woman growing up in an evangelical household.

she picked up a jug of distilled water and poured it into a flask, plugging the flask with a stopper outfitted with a tube wriggling from its top. Next, she clipped the flask onto one of two metal stands that stood between two Bunsen burners and struck a strange metal gadget that sparked like flint striking steel. A flame appeared; the water began to heat. Reaching up to a shelf, she grabbed a sack labeled “C8H10N4O2,” dumped some into a mortar, ground it with a pestle, overturned the resulting dirtlike substance onto a strange little scale, then dumped the scale’s contents into a 6- x 6-inch piece of cheesecloth and tied the small bundle off. Stuffing the cheesecloth into a larger beaker, she attached it to the second metal stand, clamping the tube coming out of the first flask into the large beaker’s bottom. As the water in the flask started to bubble, Mrs. Sloane, her jaw practically on the floor, watched as the water forced its way up the tube and into the beaker. Soon the smaller flask was almost empty and Elizabeth shut off the Bunsen burner. She stirred the contents of the beaker with a glass rod. Then the brown liquid did the strangest thing: it rose up like a poltergeist and returned to the original flask. “Cream and sugar?” Elizabeth

You only like white guys?” “Stop that,” I say through gritted teeth. “What?” he says, getting all serious. “It’s the truth, ain’t it?” Mrs. Peterson appears in front of us. “How’s that outline coming along?” she asks. I put on a fake smile. “Peachy.” I pull out the research I did at home and get down to business while Mrs. Peterson watches. “I did some research on the hand warmers last night. We need to dissolve sixty grams of sodium acetate and one hundred millimeters of water at seventy degrees.” “Wrong,” Alex says. I look up and realize Mrs. Peterson is gone. “Excuse me?” Alex folds his arms across his chest. “You’re wrong.” “I don’t think so.” “You think you’ve never been wrong before?” He says it as if I’m a ditzy blond bimbo, which sets my blood to way past boiling. “Sure I have,” I say. I make my voice sound high and breathless, like a Southern debutante. “Why, just last week I bought Bobbi Brown Sandwash Petal lip gloss when the Pink Blossom color would have looked so much better with my complexion. Needless to say the purchase was a total disaster,” I say. He expected to hear something like that come out of my mouth. I wonder if he believes it, or from my tone realizes I’m being sarcastic. “I’ll bet,” he says. “Haven’t you ever been wrong before?” I ask him. “Absolutely,” he says. “Last week, when I robbed that bank over by the Walgreens, I told the teller to hand over all the fifties he had in the till. What I really should have asked for was the twenties ‘cause there were way more twenties than fifties.” Okay, so he did get that I was putting on an act. And gave it right back to me with his own ridiculous scenario, which is actually unsettling because it makes us similar in some twisted way. I put a hand on my chest and gasp, playing along. “What a disaster.” “So I guess we can both be wrong.” I stick my chin in the air and declare stubbornly, “Well, I’m not wrong about chemistry. Unlike you, I take this class seriously.” “Let’s have a bet, then. If I’m right, you kiss me,” he says. “And if I’m right?” “Name it.” It’s like taking candy from a baby. Mr. Macho Guy’s ego is about to be taken down a notch, and I’m all too happy to be the one to do it.

Mrs Vane glanced at her [daughter], and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment the door opened, and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room… Mrs Vane fixed her eyes on him, and intensified the smile. She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the tableau was interesting. ‘You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think,’ said the lad, with a good-natured grumble… James Vane looked into his sister’s face with tenderness. ‘I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don’t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don’t want to.’ ‘My son, don’t say such dreadful things,’ murmured Mrs Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation… ‘Come, Sibyl,’ said her brother, impatiently. He hated his mother’s affectations… He was conscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother’s nature, and in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl’s happiness. Children being by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them… After some time, he thrust away his plate, and put his head in his hands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother watched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got up, and went to the door. Then he turned back, and looked at her. Their eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him. ‘Mother, I have something to ask you,’ he said. Her eyes wandered vaguely about the room. She made no answer. ‘Tell me the truth. I have a right to know. Were you married to my father?’ She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment, the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed in some measure it was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal.