We Cling To Our Last Pleasures As

How Hard It Is To Escape From Places. However Carefully One Goes They Hold You — You Leave Little Bits Of Yourself Fluttering On The Fences — Like Rags And Shreds Of Your Very Life.

If Only One Could Tell True Love From False Love As One Can Tell Mushrooms From Toadstools. With Mushrooms It Is So Simple - You Salt Them Well, Put Them Aside And Have Patience. But With Love, You Have No Sooner Lighted On Anything That Bears Even The Remotest Resemblance To It Than You Are Perfectly Certain It Is Not Only A Genuine Specimen, But Perhaps The Only Genuine Mushroom Ungathered.

I Love This Place; I Love Mountains And Big Skies And Forests. And The Weather Is Still Supremely Beautiful Even Though The Lower Peaks Are Powdered With Fresh Snow. But Heavens! What Sun. It Never Has An Ending. I Am Basking At This Minute - Half Past Four - Too Hot Without A Hat, & The Sky Is That Transparent Blue Only To Be Seen In Autumn - The Forest Trees Steeped In Light.

Do You Remember Your Childhood? I Am Always Coming Across These Marvelous Accounts By Writers Who Declare That They Remember 'everything.' I Certainly Don't. The Dark Stretches, The Blanks, Are Much Bigger Than The Bright Glimpses. I Seem To Have Spent Most Of My Time Like A Plant In A Cupboard.

Roses Are The Only Flowers At Garden-parties; The Only Flowers That Everybody Is Certain Of Knowing.