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childhood

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

3E95469A-5B8D-4942-B737-7A728AC92931“Often he talked to Mr. Singer.  With him he spoke of chemistry and the enigma of the universe.  Of the infinitesimal sperm and the cleavage of the ripened egg.  Of the complex million-fold division of cells.  Of the mystery of living matter and the simplicity of death.  And also he spoke with him of race.”

  •  The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, by Carson McCullers,

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Sarah and Katie

image“Sarah didn’t see how she could manage the costumes and scenery alone, and she wished she could talk to Katie about it.  After all, it was Katie’s play, too.  But Katie seemed to have forgotten that.  Everyone was leaving everything to Sarah.

“At this low point in Sarah’s life, she wished every morning that something different would happen, but when something finally did happen, she wished it hadn’t.”

  • from Sarah and Katie by Dori White.  Illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman.

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Shoon, Wild Pony of the Moors

image“Loren pulled off his soaking coat.  His arms shook, but without hesitation he advanced toward the foal.”

  • from Shoon, Wild Pony of the Moors, by Eunice Young Smith

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Child of the Northern Spring

image“The cheesemaker’s daughter and I were inseparable: nipping into and out of each other’s households as if we were fosterlings… climbing through the tall apple trees to gather the last of the fruit that still hung there… running to the gate as the hunting party brought in a full-sized boar, slung on a pole between two warriors… milking the cows as they grazed in the field or skimming the risen cream from the flat stone basins in the dairy yard.  And everywhere we turned there were apples…”

  • Child of the Northern Spring by Persia Woolley

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The Yearling

“The sun was sinking into the saw-grass.  The marsh was golden.  The whooping cranes were washed with gold.  The far hammocks were black.  Darkness came to the lily pads, and the water blackened.  The cranes were whiter than any clouds, or any white bloom of oleander or of lily.  Without warning, they took flight.”

– The Yearling, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

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