I Had Killed A Big Snake. I

Thea Was Still Under The Belief That Public Opinion Could Be Placated; That If You Clucked Often Enough, The Hens Would Mistake You For One Of Themselves.

The Revolt Against Individualism Naturally Calls Artists Severely To Account, Because The Artist Is Of All Men The Most Individual; Those Who Were Not Have Been Long Forgotten.

I Wanted To Walk Straight On Through The Red Grass And Over The Edge Of The World, Which Could Not Be Very Far Away. The Light And Air Abot Me Told Me That The World Ended Here: Only The Ground And Sun And Sky Were Left, And If One Went A Little Farther There Would Only Be Sun And Sky, And One Would Float Off Into Them, Like The Tawny Hawks Which Sailed Over Our Heads Making Slow Shadows On The Grass.

I Like Trees Because They Seem More Resigned To The Way They Have To Live Than Other Things Do.

He Domesticated And Developed The Native Wild Flowers. He Had One Hill-side Solidly Clad With That Low-growing Purple Verbena Which Mats Over The Hills Of New Mexico. It Was Like A Great Violet Velvet Mantle Thrown Down In The Sun; All The Shades That The Dyers And Weavers Of Italy And France Strove For Through Centuries, The Violet That Is Full Of Rose Colour And Is Yet Not Lavender; The Blue That Becomes Almost Pink And Then Retreats Again Into Sea-dark Purple—the True Episcopal Colour And Countless Variations Of It.