A Dead Tree, Falling, Made

Personal Publicity Is Apt To Be Dangerous To Any Writer's Integrity; For The Moment He Begins To Fancy Himself As Quite A Person, A Taint Creeps Into His Work.

Somewhere Beyond The Sink-hole, Past The Magnolia, Under The Live Oaks, A Boy And A Yearling Ran Side By Side, And Were Gone Forever.

Writing Is Agony For Me. I Work At It Eight Hours Every Day, Hoping To Get Six Pages, But I Am Satisfied With Three.

Food Imaginatively And Lovingly Prepared, And Eaten In Good Company, Warms The Being With Something More Than The Mere Intake Of Calories. I Cannot Conceive Of Cooking For Friends Or Family, Under Reasonable Conditions, As Being A Chore.

They Were All Too Tightly Bound Together, Men And Women, Creatures Wild And Tame, Flowers, Fruits And Leaves, To Ask That Any One Be Spared. As Long As The Whole Continued, The Earth Could Go About Its Business.