Anne of Green Gables

 Isn't it a spendid thing that there are mornings?

You don't know what's going to happen through the day, and there is so much scope for imagination.

It wouldn't be half so interesting if we know all about everything, would it?

Isn't it spendid to think of all the things there are to find out about?

I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens

but just those that bring simple little pleasures,

following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.