for a few brief moments now and then, when the flash comes, or when, as on my haystack night, the soul slips over into eternity for a little space. All the rest of our years we are slaves to something—traditions—conventions—ambitions—relations. And sometimes, as tonight, I think that last is the hardest bondage of all.
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“New Moon,
“December 3, 19—
“I am here in my own dear room, with a fire in my little fireplace by the grace of Aunt Elizabeth. An open fire is always lovely, but it is ten times lovelier on a stormy night. I watched the storm from my window until darkness fell. There is a singular charm in snow coming gently down in slanting lines against dark trees. I wrote a description of it in my Jimmy-book as I watched. A wind has come up since and now my room is full of the soft forlorn sigh of snow, driving through Lofty John’s spruce wood. It is one of the loveliest sounds in the world. Some sounds are so exquisite—far more exquisite than anything seen. Daff’s purr there on my rug, for instance—and the snap and crackle of the fire—and the squeaks and scrambles of mice that are having a jamboree behind the wainscot. I love to be alone in my room like this. I like to think even the mice are having a good time. And I get so much pleasure out of all my little belongings. They have a meaning for me they have for no one else. I have never for one moment felt at home in my room at Aunt Ruth’s, but as soon as I come here I enter into my kingdom. I love to read here—dream here—sit by the window and shape some airy fancy into verse.
“I’ve been reading one of Father’s books tonight. I always feel so beautifully near to Father when I read his books—as if I might suddenly look over my shoulder and see him. And so often I come across his pencilled notes on the margin and they seem like a message from him. The book I’m reading tonight is a wonderful one—won-
