derful in plot and conception—wonderful in its grasp of motives and passions. As I read it I feel humbled and insignificant—which is good for me. I say to myself, ‘You poor, pitiful, little creature, did you ever imagine you could write? If so, your delusion is now stripped away from you forever and you behold yourself in your naked paltriness.’ But I shall recover from this state of mind—and believe again that I can write a little—and go on cheerfully producing sketches and poems until I can do better. In another year and a half my promise to Aunt Elizabeth will be out and I can write stories again. Meanwhile—patience! To be sure, I get a bit weary at times of saying ‘patience and perseverance.’ It is hard not to see all at once the results of those estimable virtues. Sometimes I feel that I want to tear around and be as impatient as I like. But not tonight. Tonight I feel as contented as a cat on a rug. I would purr if I knew how.
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“December 9, 19—
“This was Andrew-night. He came, all beautifully groomed up, as usual. Of course, I like a boy who gets himself up well, but Andrew really carries it too far. He always seems as if he had just been starched and ironed and was afraid to move or laugh for fear he’d crack. When I come to think of it, I’ve never heard Andrew give a hearty laugh yet. And I know he never hunted pirate gold when he was a boy. But he’s good and sensible and tidy, and his nails are always clean, and the bank manager thinks a great deal of him. And he likes cats—in their place! Oh, I don’t deserve such a cousin!”
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“January 5, 19—
“Holidays are over. I had a beautiful two weeks at old white-hooded New Moon. The day before Christmas I had five acceptances. I wonder I didn’t go crazy. Three of them were from magazines who don’t pay anything, but subscriptions, for contributions. But the others were accompanied by checks—one for two dollars for a poem
