“Certainly,' said his mother, 'but first I want to know about the accident with your bicycle.' Well,' Phillip said, 'if you wanta really know. I was sitting in the basket of my bike ridin' down Mission Hill backwards singing 'Polly… — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
“_Sunday!_ In the country Sunday is the day on which you do exactly as much work as you do on other days but feel… — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
“Well, " said her daddy, "your careless heedlessness has almost lost me my life. I am now going to give you a spanking." And… — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
I am neither Christian enough nor charitable enough to like anybody just because he is alive and breathing. I want people to interest or… — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
“After splashing icy water on their faces and rubbing them fiery red with one of the rough sweet-smelling towels, they came in and took… — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
Dare we face the question of just how much of the darkness around us is of our own making? — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
In the country Sunday is the day on which you do exactly as much work as you do on other days but feel guilty… — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
“I never feel that the things I tell Mrs. Monday are lies. I think that lies are only when you want not to tell… — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
“Well, whatever you and Nancy decide to be when you grow up, I know that you'll be happy because you have discovered the comfort… — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
“Of course the reason that all the children in our town like Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle is because Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle likes children, she enjoys talking to… — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
Her magic formula for dealing with children is ignoring all faults and accenting tiny virtues. She says, "Instead of telling Tommy day in and… — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
In the country, weather is as important as food and sometimes means the difference between life and death. — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
Our little room was morbidly quiet and sorrow was heaped in my corner like dirty snow. — Betty MacDonald Copy Share Image
