The great fact was the land itself, which seemed to overwhelm the little beginnings of human society that struggled in its sombre wastes.

Many people seem to think that art is a luxury to be imported and tacked on to life. Art springs out of the very stuff that life is made of. Most of our young authors start to write a story and make a few observations from nature to add local color. The results are invariably false and hollow. Art must spring out of the fullness and richness of life.

After all, the supreme virtue in all art is soul, perhaps it is the only thing which gives art a right to be.

All the intelligence and talent in the world can't make a singer. The voice is a wild thing. It can't be bred in captivity. It is a sport, like the silver fox. It happens.

Give the people a new word and they think they have a new fact.

The great pines stand at a considerable distance from each other. Each tree grows alone, murmurs alone, thinks alone. They do notintrude upon each other. The Navajos are not much in the habit of giving or of asking help. Their language is not a communicative one, and they never attempt an interchange of personality in speech. Over their forests there is the same inexorable reserve. Each tree has its exalted power to bear.

There was a new kind of strength in the gravity of her face, and her colors still gave her that look of deep-seated health and ardor.