Quotes About Yard

Many call it the 1000 yard stare and can't realize the pain when PTSD takes us there

He has an important job: Protect the yard. Sometimes people come in and out of the yard. Most of the time, they are good people, and he doesn't bother them. He doesn't know why they are good people. He just knows it. Sometimes they are bad people, and he has to do bad things to them to make them go away. This is fitting and proper.

If they'd been dogs, they would have all been in the yard eating grass and trying to yak up whatever was making them feel so lousy. Not a bone gnawed, not a ball chased-all tails went unwagged. Oh, life is a fast cat, a short leash, a flea in that place where you just can't scratch.

Yet there have been known to be philosophers and plain men who swore by Malthus in the books, and would, nevertheless, subscribe to a relief fund in time of a famine. It was the same with Jurgis, who consigned the unfit to destruction, while going about all day sick at heart because of his poor old father, who was wandering somewhere in the yards begging for a chance to earn his bread.

On coming out of the chapel, a well can be seen on the left. There are two in this yard. You ask, Why is there no bucket and no pulley to this one? Because no water is drawn from it now. Why is no more water drawn from it? Because it is full of skeletons.

the moss and grass had begun to overtake this part of the yard, so her chair sat unsteadily on the uneven surface.

Yes, word had gotten around about my amusing little defeathering trick (note: made the chicken naked). Apparently we couldn't just eat the poor thing and be done with it. Apparently we had to knit cunning lil' sweaters for it so it could squawk around the yard, feeling fancy.

I always thought a yard was three feet, then I started mowing the lawn.

My neighbor asked me if he could borrow my lawnmower. I told him he could — as long as he didn't take it out of my yard.

They passed very quietly along the yard; for no one was there, though many heads were stealthily peeping from the windows.

Stop! let me go back because the sparkling frost covers the yard and now your last stop on Earth is frozen

The yard consisted of grass and a Russian Olive tree, which was about the only kind of tree able to survive on the high prairies. Its thin, grey leaves made it look as though it were on the verge of dying, thereby fooling the elements and the bad weather into thinking that they didn't have to bother with something so spindly and bent, something so obviously on its last legs.

EARLY MORNING IN THE yard at the Men's Reformatory at Anamosa, prisoners lounging about, doing lazy time, and here comes John Wayne Gacy, inmate number 26525, moving fast, a man with things to accomplish.

The faintly lit hatchway lay in the dark of the yard like a grave yawning at judgement day in some old apocalyptic painting.

Across the yard, brilliant against the façade of pines beyond, a cardinal shot like a drop of blood.

I found a snake in my yard, and got a shovel and whacked the hell out of it. Then I didn't have cable for a week.

When De Long arrived in California with Emma that May, he went straight down to the yard and feasted his eyes upon his new ship. He was smitten by the transformation that had taken place during his absence. "I am perfectly satisfied with her," he wrote. "She is everything I want.

A grey pigeon flies with heavy wing beats across the yard. It sits on the low wall bounding the pig-sties and tries to remember what it came for.

Every Saturday we work in the yard, pick up the dog doo, hope that it's hard.

The sculptor Pete Garcia is found in his studio Ã¢â'¬Â¦ and in his bedroom Ã¢â'¬Â¦ and in the yard beyond.

Ok. So the yard is here. It's a football field. Don't call it a yard. Grass where people sit and hang out is a yard. We stole things here, but that doesn't make it a bank.

I've always wanted children... not of my own, but for yard work and reaching into tight places to get things I've dropped.

It was Sunday, and Mumma had gone next door with Lena and the little ones. Under the pepper tree in the yard Pa was sorting, counting, the empty bottles he would sell back: the bottles going clink clink as Pa stuck them in the sack. The fowls were fluffing in the dust and sun: that crook-neck white pullet Mumma said she would hit on the head if only she had the courage to; but she hadn't.

The bad news was that the yard contained a dog. A very, very large dog, wide and hairy, like a cross between a rottweiler and a Goodyear blimp.