Quotes about Family

Perhaps we are given a mom that we might take into death the memory of a lullaby.

A mom forgives us all our faults, not to mention one or two we don't even have.

Well now, I'd rather have you than a dozen boys, Anne,' said Matthew patting her hand. 'Just mind you that — rather than a dozen boys. Well now, I guess it wasn't a boy that took the Avery scholarship, was it? It was a girl — my girl — my girl that I'm proud of.

Thank goodness, we can choose our friends. We have to take our relatives as they are, and be thankful…

I'm glad I never had any children,' said Cousin Sarah. 'If they don't break your heart in one way they do it in another.' 'Isn't it better to have your heart broken than to have it wither up?' queried Valancy. 'Before it could be broken it must have felt something splendid. That would be worth the pain.

Gilbert put his arm about them. 'Oh, you mothers!' he said. 'You mothers! God knew what He was about when He made you.

Since you are determined to be married, Miss Cornelia, said Gilbert solemnly, I shall give you the excellent rules for the management of a husband which my grandmother gave my mother when she married my father. Well, I reckon I can manage Marshall Elliott, said Miss Cornelia placidly. But let us hear your rules. The first one is, catch him. He's caught. Go on. The second one is, feed him well. With enough pie. What next? The third and fourth are-- keep your eye on him.

Doss dear, said Cousin Georgiana mournfully, some day you will discover that blood is thicker than water. Of course it is. But who wants water to be thick? parried Valancy.

The other day Nan said, 'Nothing can ever be quite the same for any of us again.' It made me feel rebellious. Why shouldn't things be the same again - when everything is over and Jem and Jerry are back? We'll all be happy and jolly again and these days will seem just like a bad dream.

Felicity, if I die from the effects of eating sawdust pudding, flavoured with needles, you'll be sorry you ever said such a thing to your poor old uncle, said Uncle Roger reproachfully.

Aunt Wellington, of whom Valancy stood in abject awe, would tell her about Olive's new chiffon dress and Cecil's last devoted letter. Valancy would have to look as pleased and interested as if the dress and letter had been hers or else Aunt Wellington would be offended. And Valancy had long ago decided that she would rather offend God than Aunt Wellington, because God might forgive her but Aunt Wellington never would.

She'd been real melancholy in the fall — religious melancholy — it ran in her family. Her father worried so much over believing that he had committed the unpardonable sin that he died in the asylum.