Regardless of the popular literary trend of the times, write the thing which lies close to your heart.
…Uncle Harry Wentworth’s dollar was turned deep under the sod. But though the sun shone on it and the rain fell, nothing ever came from it,-not a green thing nor a singing thing nor a human soul.
What makes it smell so sweet?” they wanted to know. “Because everything,–every little wild plum-blossom, every little tiny crocus and anemone and violet and every tree-bud and grass-blade is working to help make the prairie nice.
Junior was eleven. The statement is significant. There are a few peevish people in the world who believe that all eleven-year-old boys ought to be hung. Others, less irritable, think that gently chloroforming them would seem more humane. A great many good-natured folks contend that incarceration for a couple of years would prove the best way to dispose of them.
…Mabel put on the boiled potatos, unmashed, the stewed tomatos, some inferior dried beef, and some bread that plainly said, ‘Darling, I am growing old’.
…The last name had been entered by Samuel Peters’ agile pen with much shading of downward strokes and many extra corkscrew appendages…
It was true, she thought, that the big things awe us but the little things touch us.
Christmas Eve was a night of song that wrapped itself about you like a shawl. But it warmed more than your body. It warmed your heart… filled it, too, with a melody that would last forever. Even though you grew up and found you could never quite bring back the magic feeling of this night, the melody would stay in your heart always – a song for all the years.