One's Eyes Are What One Is, One's

Men Are In Fact, Quite Unable To Control Their Own Inventions; They At Best Develop Adaptability To The New Conditions Those Inventions Create.

Not The Least Hard Thing To Bear When They Go From Us, These Quiet Friends, Is That They Carry Away With Them So Many Years Of Our Own Lives.

The French Cook; We Open Tins.

Looking Back On The Long-stretched-out Body Of One's Work, It Is Interesting To Mark The Endless Duel Fought Within A Man Between The Emotional And Critical Sides Of His Nature, First One, Then The Other, Getting The Upper Hand, And Too Seldom Fusing Till The Result Has The Mellowness Of Full Achievement. One Can Even Tell The Nature Of One's Readers, By Their Preference For The Work Which Reveals More Of This Side Than Of That.

I Am Still Under The Impression That There Is Nothing Alive Quite So Beautiful As A Thoroughbred Horse.