It's In Vain To Recall

The Coffee Was Boiling Over A Charcoal Fire, And Large Slices Of Bread And Butter Were Piled One Upon The Other Like Deals In A Lumber Yard.

I Can Never Close My Lips Where I Have Opened My Heart

I Revere The Memory Of Mr. F. As An Estimable Man And Most Indulgent Husband, Only Necessary To Mention Asparagus And It Appeared Or To Hint At Any Little Delicate Thing To Drink And It Came Like Magic In A Pint Bottle; It Was Not Ecstasy But It Was Comfort.

I Hope That Real Love And Truth Are Stronger In The End Than Any Evil Or Misfortune In The World.

Now I Am In The Garden At The Back . . . A Very Preserve Of Butterflies As I Remember It, With A High Fence, And A Gate . . . Where The Fruit Clusters On The Trees, Riper And Richer Than Fruit Has Ever Been Since, In Any Other Garden, And Where My Mother Gathers Some In A Basket While I Stand By, Bolting Furtive Gooseberries, And Trying To Look Unnerved.