She will never win him, whose words had shown she feared to lose.

The writer's way is rough and lonely, and who would choose it while there are vacancies in more gracious professions, such as, say, cleaning out ferryboats?

They say of me, and so they should, It's doubtful if I come to good. I see acquaintances and friends Accumulating dividends And making enviable names In science, art and parlor games. But I, despite expert advice, Keep doing things I think are nice, And though to good I never come Inseparable my nose and thumb.

If I had a shiny gun I could have a world of fun Speeding bullets through the brains Of the folks that cause me pains :)

Work is the province of cattle.

And if my heart be scarred and burned, The safer, I, for all I learned.

[When asked what was the inspiration for most of her work:] Need of money, dear.