the occasional cries of a lost loon, strayed from its flock in northern migration, fill the swamp with sounds of wailing.

You cannot write on the heart of another what you do not feel yourself.

Every intoxicating delight of early spring was in the air. The breeze that fanned her cheek was laden with subtle perfume and the crisp, fresh odor of unfolding leaves.

Money was their God; work their religion.

I do not know why it is the fate of the world always to want something different from what life gives them.

My publishers will make any kind of a beautiful book I design and send in to them, but ... For poetry they have less use than a rooster would have for skates.

To my way of thinking and working, the greatest service a piece of fiction can do any reader is to force him to lay it down with a higher ideal of life than he had when he took it up.