Perhaps It Is Better To Wake Up

So The Storm Passed And Every One Was Happy.

Why?" Asked Her Companion. "why Do You Love Him When You Ought Not To?" Edna, With A Motion Or Two, Dragged Herself On Her Knees Before Mademoiselle Reisz, Who Took The Glowing Face Between Her Two Hands. "why? Because His Hair Is Brown And Grows Away From His Temples; Because He Opens And Shuts His Eyes, And His Nose Is A Little Out Of Drawing; Because He Has Two Lips And A Square Chin, And A Little Finger Which He Can't Straighten From Having Played Baseball Too Energetically In His Youth. Because - " "because You Do, In Short," Laughed Mademoiselle.

Does He Write To You? Never A Line. Does He Send You A Message? Never A Word. It Is Because He Loves You, Poor Fool, And Is Trying To Forget You, Since You Are Not Free To Listen To Him Or To Belong To Him.

The Mother-women Seemed To Prevail That Summer At Grand Isle. It Was Easy To Know Them, Fluttering About With Extended, Protecting Wings When Any Harm, Real Or Imaginary, Threatened Their Precious Brood. They Were Women Who Idolized Their Children, Worshiped Their Husbands, And Esteemed It A Holy Privilege To Efface Themselves As Individuals And Grow Wings As Ministering Angels.

To Be An Artist Includes Much; One Must Possess Many Gifts - Absolute Gifts - Which Have Not Been Acquired By One's Own Effort. And, Moreover, To Succeed, The Artist Much Possess The Courageous Soul.