Liza poured thick batter from a pitcher onto a soapstone griddle. The hot cakes rose like little hassocks, and small volcanoes formed and erupted on them until they were ready to be turned. A cheerful brown, they were, with tracings of darker brown. And the kitchen was full of the good sweet smell of them.

Father and son are natural enemies and each is happier and more secure in keeping it that way.

No one wants advice - only corroboration.

People are felt rather than seen after the first few moments.

Says he foun' he jus' got a little piece of a great big soul. Says a wilderness ain't no good, 'cause his little piece of a soul wasn't no good 'less it was with the rest, an' was whole.

Again it might have been the American tendency in travel. One goes, not so much to see but to tell afterward.

Best thing is to get the words down every day. And it is time to start now.