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November wind has a sound different from any other. It is easy to imagine the cave of the winds in some mythical Northland where the winds are born and the gods send them out to conquer the quiet air.

Gladys Taber

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Gladys Taber
Age: 80 †
Born: 1899
Born: April 12
Died: 1980
Died: March 11
Author
Writer
Colorado Springs
Colorado
Gladys Bagg Taber
Different
Gods
Air
Mythical
Quiet
Cave
Wind
November
Imagine
Caves
Sound
Winds
Born
Conquer
Easy
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Old houses, I thought, do not belong to people ever, not really, people belong to them.
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Perhaps, after all, our best thoughts come when we are alone. It is good to listen, not to voices but to the wind blowing, to the brook running cool over polished stones, to bees drowsy with the weight of pollen. If we attend to the music of the earth, we reach serenity. And then, in some unexplained way, we share it with others.
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My own recipe for world peace is a bit of land for everyone.
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the real evidence of growing older is that things level off in importance ... Days are no longer jagged peaks to climb time is a meadow, and we move over it with level steps.
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Nothing makes a house cozier than cats.
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April is a promise of what's to come.
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Christmas is a bridge. We need bridges as the river of time flows past. Today's Christmas should mean creating happy hours for tomorrow and reliving those of yesterday.
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History records the large events or the general condition of society, but only an individual can put down the way of life in a small town.
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Long cold nights mark November's return, grey rains fall, wind walks in the bronze oak leaves.
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Faith is a curious thing. It must be renewed it has its own spring.
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Happiness of heart can never be measured out and bundled up, it's intangible. We keep running after it, grasping for it, and the heat of our running so seldom brings it closer. But now and then there may be a moment. We look at something and know it is good and beautiful. Those moments are happiness.
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A good recipe for a human reducing breakfast is a lot of good things to eat, and three spaniels and two cats to eat with.
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The creative instincts, the love force must be nourished with every beat of our hearts until they overbalance the destructive instincts.
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There must be hundreds of unsung heroes and heroines who first tasted strange things growing - and think of the man who first ate a lobster. This staggers the imagination. I salute him every time I take my nutcracker in hand and move the melted-butter pipkin closer.
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I cannot imagine a cat in an Obedience ring, running around in the hot sun and doing things on command. For it would not make sense. Whereas a dog is tolerant of your not making sense and only wants to fix things so you are happy.
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My general attitude toward life when I first get up is of deep suspicion, verging on hatred. ... I am simply basted together until after breakfast.
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Dog lovers are a good breed themselves.
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