“Pa’s strong, sweet voice was softly singing:
“Shall auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Shall auld acquaintance be forgot,
And the days of auld lang syne?
And the days of auld lang syne, my friend,
And the days of auld lang syne,
Shall auld acquaintance be forgot,
And the days of auld lang syne?”
When the fiddle had stopped singing Laura called out softly, “What are days of auld lang syne, Pa?”
“They are the days of a long time ago, Laura,” Pa said. “Go to sleep, now.”
But Laura lay awake a little while, listening to Pa’s fiddle softly playing and to the lonely sound of the wind in the Big Woods. She looked at Pa siting on the bench by the hearth, and the fire-light gleaming on his brown hair and beard and glistening on the honey-brown fiddle. She looked at Ma, gently rocking and knitting.
She thought to herself, “This is now.”
She was glad that the cosy house, and Pa and Ma and the fire-light and the music, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago.”
― Little House in the Big Woods
“Shall auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Shall auld acquaintance be forgot,
And the days of auld lang syne?
And the days of auld lang syne, my friend,
And the days of auld lang syne,
Shall auld acquaintance be forgot,
And the days of auld lang syne?”
When the fiddle had stopped singing Laura called out softly, “What are days of auld lang syne, Pa?”
“They are the days of a long time ago, Laura,” Pa said. “Go to sleep, now.”
But Laura lay awake a little while, listening to Pa’s fiddle softly playing and to the lonely sound of the wind in the Big Woods. She looked at Pa siting on the bench by the hearth, and the fire-light gleaming on his brown hair and beard and glistening on the honey-brown fiddle. She looked at Ma, gently rocking and knitting.
She thought to herself, “This is now.”
She was glad that the cosy house, and Pa and Ma and the fire-light and the music, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago.”
― Little House in the Big Woods
“Where did the voice of Alfarata go, Ma?”
“Goodness!” Ma said. “Aren’t you asleep yet?”
“I’m going to sleep,” Laura said. “But please tell me where the voice of Alfarata went?”
“Oh I suppose she went west,” Ma answered. “That’s what the Indians do.”
“Why do they do that, Ma?” Laura asked. “Why do they go west?”
“They have to,” Ma said.
“Why do they have to?”
“The government makes them, Laura,” said Pa. “Now go to sleep.”
He played the fiddle softly for a while. Then Laura asked, “Please, Pa, can I ask just one more question?”
“May I,” said Ma.
Laura began again. “Pa, please, may I--”
“What is it?” Pa asked. It was not polite for little girls to interrupt, but of course Pa could do it.”
― Little House on the Prairie
“Goodness!” Ma said. “Aren’t you asleep yet?”
“I’m going to sleep,” Laura said. “But please tell me where the voice of Alfarata went?”
“Oh I suppose she went west,” Ma answered. “That’s what the Indians do.”
“Why do they do that, Ma?” Laura asked. “Why do they go west?”
“They have to,” Ma said.
“Why do they have to?”
“The government makes them, Laura,” said Pa. “Now go to sleep.”
He played the fiddle softly for a while. Then Laura asked, “Please, Pa, can I ask just one more question?”
“May I,” said Ma.
Laura began again. “Pa, please, may I--”
“What is it?” Pa asked. It was not polite for little girls to interrupt, but of course Pa could do it.”
― Little House on the Prairie
“Laura felt a warmth inside her. It was very small, but it was strong. It was steady, like a tiny light in the dark, and it burned very low but no winds could make it flicker because it would not give up.”
― The Long Winter
― The Long Winter
“Then a crisis arose. Feldstein imposed a school-wide, comprehensive locker ban on the project.”
― Don't Care High
― Don't Care High
“Wild roved an Indian maid,
Bright Alfarata,
Where flow the waters
Of the blue Juniata.
Strong and true my arrows are
In my painted quiver,
Swift goes my light canoe
Adown the rapid river.
“Bold is my warrior good,
The love of Alfarata,
Proud wave his sunny plumes
Along the Juniata.
Soft and low he speaks to me,
And then his war-cry sounding
Rings his voice in thunder loud
From height to height resounding.
“So sang the Indian maid,
Bright Alfarata,
Where sweep the waters
Of the blue Juniata.
Fleeting years have borne away
The voice of Alfarata,
Still flow the waters
Of the blue Juniata.”
― Little House on the Prairie
Bright Alfarata,
Where flow the waters
Of the blue Juniata.
Strong and true my arrows are
In my painted quiver,
Swift goes my light canoe
Adown the rapid river.
“Bold is my warrior good,
The love of Alfarata,
Proud wave his sunny plumes
Along the Juniata.
Soft and low he speaks to me,
And then his war-cry sounding
Rings his voice in thunder loud
From height to height resounding.
“So sang the Indian maid,
Bright Alfarata,
Where sweep the waters
Of the blue Juniata.
Fleeting years have borne away
The voice of Alfarata,
Still flow the waters
Of the blue Juniata.”
― Little House on the Prairie
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