season

Christmas is a season not only of rejoicing but of reflection.

Christmas isn't a season. It's a feeling.

I love Christmas, not just because of the presents but because of all the decorations and lights and the warmth of the season.

Finding the real joy of Christmas comes not in the hurrying and the scurrying to get more done, nor is it found in the purchasing of gifts. We find real joy when we make the Savior the focus of the season.

For many sports fans, the onset of fall only means one thing: It's football season!

I don't think a show's ever changed networks in the middle of the season before, but it was cool because they gave us those extra couple years of life that was necessary to get us to syndication.

Childhood is a short season.

Sometimes the only way to make palatable that which is appalling and apprehensive is to season it with some humor.

I'll never forget that show season. It was completely mad. I was staying between Christy and Naomi's rooms and it was all limos and the Ritz Hotel and all that kind of business.

A revised schedule is to business what a new season is to an athlete or a new canvas to an artist.

It is always in season for old men to learn.

November--with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. With murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. With dear days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified serenity of folded hands and closed eyes--days full of a fine, pale sunshine that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper-trees and glimmered among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing the colonnades of the pines. Days with a high-sprung sky of flawless turquoise. Days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the landscape and dream about the lake. But days, too, of the wild blackness of great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees. What cared they? Old Tom had built his roof well, and his chimney drew.

Autumn. The grace in letting dead things fall.

Every tree bears fruit in its sacred season.

Summer was on the way; Jem and I awaited it with impatience. Summer was our best season: it was sleeping on the back screened porch in cots, or trying to sleep in the tree house; summer was everything good to eat; it was a thousand colors in a parched landscape; but most of all, summer was Dill.

I do not know why there is this difference, but I am sure that God keeps no one waiting unless He sees that it is good for him to wait. When you do enter your room, you will find that the long wait has done you some kind of good which you would not have had otherwise. But you must regard it as waiting, not as camping. You must keep on praying for light: and of course, even in the hall, you must begin trying to obey the rules which are common to the whole house. And above all you must be asking which door is the true one; not which pleases you best by its paint and paneling.

Daffodils are yellow trumpets of spring

December, being the last month of the year, cannot help but make us think of what is to come.