Ah! The Terror And The Delight Of

I Have Sometimes Thought That His Bursts Of Imaginative Talk Were Fatal To His Poetic Gift. He Squandered Too Much In The Heat Of Personal Communication.

The Trees And Shrubbery Seemed Well-groomed And Social, Like Pleasant People.

Sometimes," I Ventured, "it Doesn't Occur To Boys That Their Mother Was Ever Young And Pretty. . . I Couldn't Stand It If You Boys Were Inconsiderate, Or Thought Of Her As If She Were Just Somebody Who Looked After You. You See I Was Very Much In Love With Your Mother Once, And I Know There's Nobody Like Her.

The History Of Every Country Begins In The Heart Of A Man Or A Woman.

The End Is Nothing; The Road Is All.