To Note An Artist's Limitations Is But

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.

To Fulfil The Dreams Of One's Youth; That Is The Best That Can Happen To A Man. No Worldly Success Can Take The Place Of That.

The Condition Every Art Requires Is, Not So Much Freedom From Restriction, As Freedom From Adulteration And From The Intrusion Of Foreign Matter.

Some Memories Are Realities, And Are Better Than Anything That Can Ever Happen To One Again.

Of Course Nebraska Is A Storehouse Of Literary Material. Everywhere Is A Storehouse Of Literary Material. If A True Artist Were Born In A Pigpen And Raised In A Sty, He Would Still Find Plenty Of Inspiration For His Work. The Only Need Is The Eye To See.