Thirty or forty years ago, in one those grey towns along the Burlington railroad which are so much greyer to-day than they were then, there was a house well know from Omaha to Denver for its hospitality and for a certain charm of atmosphere.

I had killed a big snake. I was now a big fellow.

Only a Woman, divine, could know all that a woman can suffer.

Too much detail is apt, like any other form of extravagance, to become slightly vulgar.

Paris is a hard place to leave, even when it rains incessantly and one coughs continually from the dampness.

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.

Elsewhere the sky is the roof of the world; but here the earth was the floor of the sky.