A Display Of Indifference To All The

Her Heart-is Given Him, With All Its Love And Truth. She Would Joyfully Die With Him, Or, Better Than That, Die For Him. She Knows He Has Failings, But She Thinks They Have Grown Up Through His Being Like One Cast Away, For The Want Of Something To Trust In, And Care For, And Think Well Of.

Now I Am In The Garden At The Back . . . A Very Preserve Of Butterflies As I Remember It, With A High Fence, And A Gate . . . Where The Fruit Clusters On The Trees, Riper And Richer Than Fruit Has Ever Been Since, In Any Other Garden, And Where My Mother Gathers Some In A Basket While I Stand By, Bolting Furtive Gooseberries, And Trying To Look Unnerved.

To See The Butcher Slap The Steak Before He Laid It On The Block, And Give His Knife A Sharpening, Was To Forget Breakfast Instantly. It Was Agreeable Too - It Really Was - To See Him Cut It Off So Smooth And Juicy. There Was Nothing Savage In The Act, Although The Knife Was Large And Keen; It Was A Piece Of Art, High Art; There Was Delicacy Of Touch, Clearness Of Tone, Skilful Handling Of The Subject, Fine Shading. It Was The Triumph Of Mind Over Matter; Quite.

We Forge The Chains We Wear In Life.

I Had Considered How The Things That Never Happen, Are Often As Much Realities To Us, In Their Effects, As Those That Are Accomplished.