Happy People Do A Great Deal For

In New Mexico, He Always Awoke A Young Man, Not Until He Arose And Began To Shave Did He Realize That He Was Growing Older. His First Consciousness Was A Sense Of The Light Dry Wind Blowing In Through The Windows, With The Fragrance Of Hot Sun And Sage-brush And Sweet Clover; A Wind That Made One's Body Feel Light And One's Heart Cry 'to-day, To-day,' Like A Child's.

The Dead Might As Well Try To Speak To The Living As The Old To The Young.

It Has Long Been A Tradition Among Novel Writers That A Book Must End By Everybody Getting Just What They Wanted, Or If The Conventional Happy Ending Was Impossible, Then It Must Be A Tragedy In Which One Or Both Should Die. In Real Life Very Few Of Us Get What We Want, Our Tragedies Don't Kill Us, But We Go On Living Them Year After Year, Carrying Them With Us Like A Scar On An Old Wound.

In Little Towns, Lives Roll Along So Close To One Another; Loves And Hates Beat About, Their Wings Almost Touching.

Only Solitary Men Know The Full Joys Of Frienship. Others Have Their Family; But To A Solitary And An Exile, His Friends Are Everything.