One Ought To Have The Right To

It's A Funny Thing About Bogs. You Can Fill Them With Rocks And Sand And Old Logs And Make A Little Fenced-in Yard On Top With A Woodpile And Chopping Block - But Bogs Go Right On Behaving Like Bogs. Early In The Spring They Breathe Ice And Make Their Own Mist, In Remembrance Of The Time When They Had Black Water And Their Own Sedge Blossoming Untouched.

They Were Always Doing Something. Quietly, Without Interruption, And With Great Concentration, They Carried On With The Hundred-and-one Small Things That Made Up Their World.

All Things Are So Very Uncertain, And That's Exactly What Makes Me Feel Reassured.

One Ought To Have The Right To Have A Secret And To Spring It As A Surprise. But If You Live Inside A Family You Have Neither.

It Was A Particularly Good Evening To Begin A Book.