Write-On

She makes all the bread, for her father only likes hers. She says, "and people must have puddings..." This, very dreamily, as if puddings were comets.

- so she makes them.

Her father was severe, and I have to think remote. He did not want them to read anything except the Bible. One day her brother hid her and Kavanagar under a piano cover and had signs read over them. Finally, her father found them and was upset. Presumably one of them knew another child (Miss Lydia Marie), who brought them books and hid them at the door. They were then little things in short dresses with their feet on the rungs of the chair. Looking back on the first book, she exclaimed in ecstasy: “This then is a book!"  

It is interesting. They say that the truth is such a strange thing.

She told me, "We are the ones who play all of the parts in all of the stories we are told."

I think I will mail this here as I have found time to write so much. It is a peaceful country at sunrise.

T. W. Higginson (1823-1911), correspondent.

[The next day she closes his notes and writes to his doctor. She dated the letter: Wednesday, noon.]

Transition is difficult. But the thing about inner-vision is this; no matter how hazy or even seemingly non-existent it is, as long as there is a wisp, and as long as you continue to follow it, it eventually becomes clearer. It eventually attains definition. Don't ever stop following it. Make it up as your own invention, if you have to. It is all that matters.