Chestnut Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
the-ordinary-chestnut-can-beget-sickly-reluctant-laugh-but-it-takes-horse-chestnut-to-fetch-gorgeous-big-horselaugh-mark-twain
the-arcadians-were-chestnuteaters-alcaeus
under-spreading-chestnut-tree-i-sold-you-you-sold-me-there-lie-they-here-lie-we-under-spreading-chestnut-tree-george-orwell
she-was-tall-woman-with-unfashionable-hips-long-chestnut-braid-singing-down-her-back-toni-morrison
this-is-weather-cuckoo-likes-and-do-i-when-showers-betumble-chestnut-spikes-and-nestlings-fly-thomas-hardy
i-could-not-help-reflecting-that-bullet-which-had-struck-chestnut-horse-had-certainly-passed-within-foot-my-head-so-at-any-rate-i-had-been-under-winston-churchill
i-am-small-like-wren-my-hair-is-bold-like-chestnut-burr-my-eyes-like-sherry-in-glass-that-guest-leaves-emily-dickinson
chestnut-brown-canary-ruby-throated-sparrow-sing-song-dont-be-long-thrill-me-to-marrow-sidney-crosby
i-felt-once-more-how-simple-frugal-thing-is-happiness-glass-wine-roast-chestnut-wretched-little-brazier-sound-sea-nothing-else-nikos-kazantzakis
the-chestnuts-proud-lilacs-pretty-the-poplars-gentle-tall-but-plane-trees-kind-to-poor-dull-city-i-love-him-best-all-e-nesbit
o-chestnuttree-greatrooted-blossomer-are-you-leaf-blossom-bole-o-body-swayed-to-music-o-brightening-glance-how-can-we-know-dancer-from-dance-wb-yeats
late-one-brilliant-april-afternoon-professor-lucius-wilson-stood-at-head-chestnut-street-looking-about-him-with-pleased-air-man-taste-who-does-willa-cather
theres-old-chestnut-that-asks-whether-entrepreneur-is-born-made-i-think-its-combination-both-you-need-talent-without-talent-you-cant-do-it-theo-paphitis
simpson-homer-simpson-hes-greatest-guy-in-history-from-town-springfield-hes-about-to-hit-chestnut-tree-homer
if-day-comes-when-our-descendants-can-venture-with-wonder-into-chestnut-forests-we-will-have-gained-back-more-than-perfect-tree-we-will-have-gained-new-reason-for-hope-susan-frei
under-spreading-chestnuttree-the-village-smithy-stands-the-smith-mighty-man-is-he-with-large-sinewy-hands-and-muscles-his-brawny-arms-are-strong-henry-wadsworth-longfellow
if-you-dry-chestnut-both-barks-being-taken-away-beat-them-into-powder-make-powder-up-into-electuary-with-honey-it-is-firstrate-remedy-for-cough-nicholas-culpeper
you-are-like-chestnut-burr-prickly-outside-but-silkysoft-within-sweet-kernel-if-one-can-only-get-at-it-love-will-make-you-show-your-heart-some-day-then-rough-burr-will-fall-off-l
under-spreading-chestnut-tree-i-sold-you-you-sold-me-george-orwell
if-im-happy-my-eyes-are-chestnut-if-im-surprised-my-eyes-are-hazelnut-if-im-afraid-my-eyes-look-like-they-just-shit-themselves-if-im-crying-my-eyes-get-lighter-greener-like-anore
in-good-mood-i-call-my-hair-chestnut-with-gold-glints-in-bad-mood-i-call-it-mousy-brown-mary-ann-shaffer
at-beginning-earth-was-hell-then-it-became-heaven-hell-is-road-leading-to-heaven-chestnut-tastes-good-after-roasted-when-sand-lives-through-hell-it-becomes-beautiful-glass-mehmet
how-simple-frugal-thing-is-happiness-glass-wine-roast-chestnut-wretched-little-brazier-sound-sea-all-that-is-required-to-feel-that-here-now-is-happiness-is-simple-frugal-heart-ni
A spring sun was shining on the rue St. Honore, as I ran down the church steps. On one corner stood a barrow full of yellow jonquils, pale violets from the Riviera, dark Russian violets, and white Roman hyacinths in a golden cloud of mimosa. The street was full of Sunday pleasure-seekers. I swung my cane and laughed with the rest. Someone overtook and passed me. He never turned, but there was the same deadly malignity in his white profile that there had been in his eyes. I watched him as long as I could see him. His lithe back expressed the same menace; every step that carried him away from me seemed to bear him on some errand connected with my destruction. I was creeping along, my feet almost refusing to move. There began to dawn in me a sense of responsibility for something long forgotten. It began to seem as if I deserved that which he threatened: it reached a long way back - a long, long way back. It had lain dormant all these. years: it was there though, and presently it would rise and confront me. But I would try to escape; and I stumbled as best I could into the rue de Rivioli, across the Place de la Concorde and on to the Quai. I looked with sick eyes upon the sun, shining through the white foam of the fountain, pouring over the backs of the dusky bronze river-gods, on the far-away Arc, a structure of amethyst mist, on the countless vistas of grey stems and bare branches faintly green. Then I saw him again coming down one of the chestnut alleys of the Cours la Reine. ("In The Court of the Dragon")

Robert W. Chambers
a-spring-sun-was-shining-on-rue-st-honore-as-i-ran-down-church-steps-on-one-corner-stood-barrow-full-yellow-jonquils-pale-violets-from-riviera-dark-russian-violets-white-roman-hy
Approaching the trail, he broke through the thicket a short distance ahead of the Empath. Causing the Empaths horse to startle as the surprised rider jerked on the reins. Cap was equally surprised to find a young girl before him instead of an older, experienced male Empath. Cap brought his horse to a quick halt. The young girl pulled a small knife from her boot and cautioned him. "I don't know where you came from, but I'm not easy prey.' Her voice shook slightly with fear as she raised the knife. Not sure how to proceed, they stared silently at each other. Cap had always believed that Empaths didn't carry weapons. This pretty, chestnut haired girl couldn't be more than 18 years old. Her long straight tresses covered the spot on her jacket where the Empathic Emblem was usually worn, causing Cap to doubt she was the one he sought. Not wanting to frighten her any more than he already had, Cap tried to explain. "I'm Commander Caplin Taylor. I'm looking for an Empath that is headed for the Western Hunting Lodge.' "My name is Kendra; I am the Empath you seek.' She answered cautiously, still holding the blade. A noise from the brush drew her attention as a small rodent pounced out, trying to evade an unseen predator. Cap was just close enough to lurch forward and snatch the dirk from her hand. Her head jerked back in alarm. "Bosen May has been mauled by a Sraeb, his shoulder is a mass of pulp." Cap spoke quickly not wanting to hesitate any longer. That was all Kendra needed to hear. She pushed her horse past him and headed quickly down the trail. "Wait!" Cap called after her, turning his horse around. Reining in the horse, she turned back to face him annoyed by the delay. "Are you a good horseman?" Cap asked, as he stuffed her dirk in his jacket. "I've been in the saddle since I was a child." She answered, abruptly. "Okay so just a few years then?" Cap's rebuke angered her. Jerking the horse back toward the trail, she ignored him. "Wait, I'm sorry!" Cap called after her. "It's just that I know a quicker way, if you can handle some rough terrain." "Let's go then." Kendra replied, gruffly, turning back to face him. Without another word, Cap dove back into the brush and the girl followed.

Alaina Stanford
approaching-trail-he-broke-through-thicket-short-distance-ahead-empath-causing-empaths-horse-to-startle-as-surprised-rider-jerked-on-reins-cap-was-equally-surprised-to-find-young
The street sprinkler went past and, as its rasping rotary broom spread water over the tarmac, half the pavement looked as if it had been painted with a dark stain. A big yellow dog had mounted a tiny white bitch who stood quite still. In the fashion of colonials the old gentleman wore a light jacket, almost white, and a straw hat. Everything held its position in space as if prepared for an apotheosis. In the sky the towers of Notre-Dame gathered about themselves a nimbus of heat, and the sparrows - minor actors almost invisible from the street - made themselves at home high up among the gargoyles. A string of barges drawn by a tug with a white and red pennant had crossed the breadth of Paris and the tug lowered its funnel, either in salute or to pass under the Pont Saint-Louis. Sunlight poured down rich and luxuriant, fluid and gilded as oil, picking out highlights on the Seine, on the pavement dampened by the sprinkler, on a dormer window, and on a tile roof on the eŽle Saint-Louis. A mute, overbrimming life flowed from each inanimate thing, shadows were violet as in impressionist canvases, taxis redder on the white bridge, buses greener. A faint breeze set the leaves of a chestnut tree trembling, and all down the length of the quai there rose a palpitation which drew voluptuously nearer and nearer to become a refreshing breath fluttering the engravings pinned to the booksellers' stalls. People had come from far away, from the four corners of the earth, to live that one moment. Sightseeing cars were lined up on the parvis of Notre-Dame, and an agitated little man was talking through a megaphone. Nearer to the old gentleman, to the bookseller dressed in black, an American student contemplated the universe through the view-finder of his Leica. Paris was immense and calm, almost silent, with her sheaves of light, her expanses of shadow in just the right places, her sounds which penetrated the silence at just the right moment. The old gentleman with the light-coloured jacket had opened a portfolio filled with coloured prints and, the better to look at them, propped up the portfolio on the stone parapet. The American student wore a red checked shirt and was coatless. The bookseller on her folding chair moved her lips without looking at her customer, to whom she was speaking in a tireless stream. That was all doubtless part of the symphony. She was knitting. Red wool slipped through her fingers. The white bitch's spine sagged beneath the weight of the big male, whose tongue was hanging out. And then when everything was in its place, when the perfection of that particular morning reached an almost frightening point, the old gentleman died without saying a word, without a cry, without a contortion while he was looking at his coloured prints, listening to the voice of the bookseller as it ran on and on, to the cheeping of the sparrows, the occasional horns of taxis. He must have died standing up, one elbow on the stone ledge, a total lack of astonishment in his blue eyes. He swayed and fell to the pavement, dragging along with him the portfolio with all its prints scattered about him. The male dog wasn't at all frightened, never stopped. The woman let her ball of wool fall from her lap and stood up suddenly, crying out: 'Monsieur Bouvet!

Georges Simenon
the-street-sprinkler-went-past-as-its-rasping-rotary-broom-spread-water-over-tarmac-half-pavement-looked-as-if-it-had-been-painted-with-dark-stain-a-big-yellow-dog-had-mounted-ti
The story was called 'Annika and the Bears.' The beginning of the story is really the end, and Annika is staring wide-eyed into new velvet-black darkness. The eyes she stares with were brown once, sparkling and the exact color of root beer, but are now an empty ice-blue, almost white. Annika is waiting for her body to grow warm so that she can fall asleep and, as she waits, she remembers life outside this darkness, remembers the world she loved and how it changed. Once, her home was called the Land of Spring and Fall because that's what it was, a place in which the seasons didn't turn in a circle, but moved like a seesaw, Fall becoming Spring becoming Fall becoming Spring. And there had been a moment every year when the seesaw hit a perfect balance. This was Annika's favorite time because blossoms burst from branches alongside red and gold leaves, crocuses opened between rows of corn, and baby animals were born under autumn skies. In the Land of Spring and Fall, it was never too cold or too hot to play outside; brooks never froze or dried up; leaves never fell from the trees; and people and animals never grew old or died. But when a witch appeared in the land, a witch who was furiously angry, but for no reason anyone could understand, and the witch cast a spell that plunged the land into a never-ending winter. In Winterland, terrible things began to happen. People and animals got sick, with wrenching coughs and burning fevers. Desperate for warmth, the people began to kill their friends the animals in order to wrap themselves in fur coats. Food became scarce, and everyone began to fight over what little there was. And strangest of all, one by one, every living, breathing creature in the land began to turn as white as chalk, as colorless as snow with no sun shining on it. One day, Annika sat at her window, looking sadly at the blank world, when she saw, trudging across the snow, her beloved friend John the bear and his family of bears. Some of the bears were white, some were a dull gray, but only John was still a rich chestnut brown. The bears walked with their immense heads hanging down and some of them cried, dropping tears onto the snow. Before they hit the ground, the tears turned to ice. Annika ran outside, calling John's name. He stopped and looked at her with his kind eyes and told her that they were going away, to a cave deep inside one of the high hills that surrounded Winterland. 'To sleep, ' he said. 'To wait.' Annika threw her arms around John, buried her face in his beautiful fur, and then stood and watched as the procession of bears patiently resumed their long journey. That night, Annika woke up with a start. She sat up in bed and saw that the hair falling over her shoulders was as white as milk, and she ran to the mirror. As she stared at her reflection, the pink began draining from her cheeks. 'Oh no, ' she whispered. 'It's happening. I'm turning into someone else. A winter girl.' In a flash, she had on her shoes and her thickest wool coat and was out the door. The trail of crystal tears the bears had left gleamed in what little moonlight could force its way through the clouds and, slogging through snow, cold eating into her bones, Annika followed the trail. When she got to the cave and moved away the rock that blocked the entrance, all the bears were asleep, except John. He rested his paw on the patch of soft dirt next to him. 'For you, dear heart, ' he said sleepily. Then he moved the rock into place and lay back down. Annika curled up between John and another bear, listening to their slow breathing, readying herself for sleep. The bears' bodies warmed her own from the outside in. The last thing to get warm was her heart, and then Annika fell asleep. The story ends this way: 'Imagine the deepest sleep you've ever slept. Multiply its deepness by the number of stars in the sky and the number of fish in the sea. Then you will know the sleep of Annika and the bears.

Marisa de los Santos
the-story-was-called-annika-bears-the-beginning-story-is-really-end-annika-is-staring-wideeyed-into-new-velvetblack-darkness-the-eyes-she-stares-with-were-brown-once-sparkling-ex
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