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"Back back to that old farm, from which you brought me in evil hour! It is poor, obscure, profitless, unsought, unseen: it will give me a shelter it may bring me peace. I must have solitude for a season; I must sleep for months." "Sleep for months! La me, child, what a notion's that!" "No matter thither let us go. I seem to see it, stretching out its hands, and imploring us to come."
"I don't see why the Saturday club people shouldn't do a really great work in that way," she went on. "Of course it would want organisation, some one to give their life to it, but I'm ready to do that. My notion's to think of the human beings first and let the abstract ideas take care of themselves.
And now this next little notion is scarcely of substance sufficient to assume the garb of authorship: it is little more than a passing whim, but I choose for the very notion's sake to make it better known. Except in a very few instances as Haydn's 'Seasons, e.g. Oratorios, from some conventional idea of Lent, we may suppose, seem obligated to concern matters sacred.
And now this next little notion is scarcely of substance sufficient to assume the garb of authorship: it is little more than a passing whim, but I choose for the very notion's sake to make it better known. Except in a very few instances as Haydn's 'Seasons, e.g. Oratorios, from some conventional idea of Lent, we may suppose, seem obligated to concern matters sacred.
Since then my notion's proved itself. He's lit out. He's cut from his gopher hole at Sachigo. An' when a gopher gets away from his hole, the man with the gun has him dead set. But say, that muss up you reckon I made doesn't look that way when you know the things it's taught me.
And if you show us a little Miss Butterfly, beautiful to the finger-ends, do we not fall in love with her at least as unaffectedly as if we were canons residentiary or rural deans? Fancy little Miss Butterfly a rural deaness! the notion's too ridiculous. Fly away, little Miss Butterfly; fly away, sweet little frolicsome, laughsome creature.
"Well, I'll say this much of the notion's come true," said the native of Chellaston hastily "it's awful queer weather not that I believe it myself," he added. "Has the weather been so remarkable as to make them think that?" asked Alec. "'Tain't the weather made them think it. He only said the weather weren't unlike as if it were coming true."
This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, To try my fate in guid, black prent; But still the mair I'm that way bent, Something cries, "Hoolie! I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye'll shaw your folly. "There's ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, Hae thought they had ensured their debtors, A' future ages; Now moths deform in shapeless tatters Their unknown pages."
"What's in the bundle, old man?" asked Will Staples, after they had got clear of the ship. "Clothes," returned Blunt. "We can't bring him off, if it is him, in his canaries. He puts on these duds, d'ye see, sinks Her Majesty's livery, and comes aboard, a 'shipwrecked mariner'." "That's well thought of. Whose notion's that? The Madam's, I'll be bound." "Ay." "She's a knowing one."
I've always had a horror of being married for a living or for a home or as an experiment or a springboard. My notion's been that I wouldn't trust a woman who wasn't independent. And theoretically I still think that's sound. But it doesn't work out in practice. A man has to have been in love to be able to speak the last word on the sex question."
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