He Who Plants A Tree,

When I Heard That There Were Artists, I Wished I Could Some Time Be One. If I Could Only Make A Rose Bloom On Paper, I Thought I Should Be Happy! Or If I Could At Last Succeed In Drawing The Outline Of Winter-stripped Boughs As I Saw Them Against The Sky, It Seemed To Me That I Should Be Willing To Spend Years In Trying.

A Friend Is A Beloved Mystery; Dearest Always Because He Is Not Ourself, And Has Something In Him Which It Is Impossible For Us To Fathom. If It Were Not So, Friendship Would Lose Its Chief Zest.

The Peach-bud Glows, The Wild Bee Hums, And Wind-flowers Wave In Graceful Gladness.

Our Relatives Form The Natural Setting Of Our Childhood. We Understand Ourselves Best And Are Best Understood By Others Through The Persons Who Came Nearest To Us In Our Earliest Years.

A Journal Of The 'subjective' Kind I Have Always Thought Foolish, As Nurturing A Morbid Self -consciousness In The Writer; And Yet, Alone So Much As I Am, It Is Well To Have Some Sort Of A Ventilator From The Interior.