Each Lost Day Has Its Patron Saint!

Hark! I Hear The Tramp Of Thousands, And Of Armèd Men The Hum; Lo, A Nation's Hosts Have Gathered Round The Quick Alarming Drum Saying, Come, Freemen, Come! Ere Your Heritage Be Wasted, Said The Quick Alarming Drum.

There Is Peace In The Swamp, Though The Quiet Is Death

When Folks Find I Ain't Afeard To Speak My Mind On Their Affairs, They Kinder Guess I'm Tellin' The Truth About My Own.

Besides Writing, I Have Been Teaching Myself To 'develop' My Own Photographic Plates, And I Haven't A Stick Of Clothing Or An Exposed Finger That Isn't Stained. I Sit For Hours In A Dark-room Feeling As If I Were A Very Elderly Faust At Some Dreadful Incantation, And Come Out Of It, Blinding At The Light, Like A Bastille Prisoner. And Yet I Am Not Successful!

Crude At First [the Short Story] Received A Literary Polish In The Press, But Its Dominant Quality Remained. It Was Concise And Condense, Yet Suggestive. It Was Delightfully Extravagant - Or A Miracle Of Understatement