I Don't Think It's Fair For Some

Every Few Weeks She Would Shut Herself Up In Her Room, Put On Her Scribbling Suit, And Fall Into A Vortex, As She Expressed It, Writing Away At Her Novel With All Her Heart And Soul, For Till That Was Finished She Could Find No Peace.

But Buds Will Be Roses, And Kittens, Cats - More's The Pity.

My Definition (of A Philosopher) Is Of A Man Up In A Balloon, With His Family And Friends Holding The Ropes Which Confine Him To Earth And Trying To Haul Him Down.

Nothing Remained But Loneliness And Grief.

…for No Matter How Lost And Soiled And Worn-out Wandering Sons May Be, Mothers Can Forgive And Forget Every Thing As They Fold Them Into Their Fostering Arms. Happy The Son Whose Faith In His Mother Remains Unchanged, And Who, Through All His Wanderings, Has Kept Some Filial Token To Repay Her Brave And Tender Love.