If I Were A Headmaster, I Would

The Writer Walks Out Of His Workroom In A Daze. He Wants A Drink. He Needs It. It Happens To Be A Fact That Nearly Every Writer Of Fiction In The World Drinks More Whisky Than Is Good For Him. He Does It To Give Himself Faith Hope And Courage. A Person Is A Fool To Become A Writer. His Only Compensation Is Absolute Freedom. He Has No Master Except His Own Soul And That I Am Sure Is Why He Does It.

Hooray!" Said The Chief Of The Army. "let's Blow Everyone Up! Bang-bang! Bang-bang!

I Do Have A Blurred Memory Of Sitting On The Stairs And Trying Over And Over Again To Tie One Of My Shoelaces, But That Is All That Comes Back To Me Of School Itself.

I Was Observing Her Closely As I Talked, And After A While I Began To Get The Impression That She Was Not, In Fact, Quite So Merry And Smiling A Girl As I Had Been Led To Believe At First. She Seemed To Be Coiled In Herself, As Though With A Secret She Was Jealously Guarding. The Deep-blue Eyes Moved Too Quickly About The Room, Never Settling Or Resting On One Thing For More Than A Moment; And Over All Her Face, Though So Faint That They Might Not Even Have Been There, Those Small Downward Lines Of Sorrow.

What A Fortunate Fellow I Am, I Kept Telling Myself. Nobody Has Ever Had Such A Lovely Time As This!