We Must For Dear Life Make Our

Don't Pass It By - The Immediate, The Real, The Ours, The Yours, The Novelist's That It Waits For.

Little By Little, Even With Other Cares, The Slowly But Surely Working Poison Of The Garden-mania Begins To Stir In My Long-sluggish Veins.

When You Forget To Eat, You Know You're Alive.

Innocent And Infinite Are The Pleasures Of Observation.

One Of My Latest Sensations Was Going To Lady Airlie's To Hear Browning Read His Own Poems - With The Comport Of Finding That, At Least, If You Don't Understand Them, He Himself Apparently Understands Them Even Less. He Read Them As If He Hated Them And Would Like To Bite Them To Pieces.