Are there pages where he ceases from posing, ceases from admiring the placid flood & flow of his own dilution I was profoundly moved, profoundly interested. One paragraph was written inshorthand. In our old day such a gathering talkedpure drivel and rot, mostly, but better that, a thousand times, thanthese dreary conversational funerals that oppress our spirits in this madgeneration.
es of their desolated land in rags & hunger & thirst, sport of the sun- flames of summer & the icy winds of winter, brok I feigned to be ashamed of my mistake and said: Ah, well, I couldn't have made that mistake a few years ago; but I am old, and one of Jean has a hammock swung between two such great trees, & on the other side of a little pond, which is full of white & yellow pond-lil But that is a dream; a creature of the heart, not of the mind--a feeling, a longing, not a mental prod
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