It's remarkable - most remarkable, the way these people manage, from time to time, a tragedy or a near-tragedy to break the even tenor of their ways,' said Mr. Tingley, in a tone of half-humorous superiority, by which he considered… — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
a man can break God's laws and be forgiven. That's what they teach us. But when he breaks Nature's laws, there's no forgiveness - and there's no escape. Sooner or later he pays the penalty, or his children pay it… — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
The lush green of the fields became a rich gold that swayed sturdily under the wind and fell at last before the hands of… — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
Listen - man is a child of Nature. When he turns against his mother - he's done! He may not find out about it… — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
There is too much doing - too little being! When we begin to get strenuous, life begins to grow intolerable. — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
There was nothing so real on the prairie as winter, nothing so memorable. — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
“Work did not destroy the loneliness; work was only a fog in which they moved so that they might not see the loneliness of… — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
It's remarkable - most remarkable, the way these people manage, from time to time, a tragedy or a near-tragedy to break the even tenor… — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
once a man had thrust his hands into the soil and knew the grit of it between his teeth, he felt something rise within… — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
Religion is passionate, reckless, destructive, idol-smashing. It's a martyr burning at the stake. It's a crown of thorns and a cross. — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
a man can break God's laws and be forgiven. That's what they teach us. But when he breaks Nature's laws, there's no forgiveness -… — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
Here and there on the branch of an oak a congress of leaves still clung, rigid as flakes of bronze. — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
You have stirred the soil with your plow, my friend. It will never be the same again. — Martha Ostenso Copy Share Image
