"You don't write, I presume?" She suddenly demanded. To say 'yes' would have meant falling instantly into her disfavor. 'No' wasn't exactly a lie. "Only when inspiration strikes" was the reply.
"Strikes? Hmph. Well well, I hope it doesn't attack you very often. It's a terrible thing to be black and blue. I had a Cousin who was black and blue all the time - it was very unbecoming. Well well. Being struck by inspiration is getting to be very popular, I hear. Appalling. In my day, being a writer was not well thought of. I had an Aunt who was a writer. It was a disgrace to the Family Name. She was always dashing about, finding or inventing plots and tragedies and scandals in the lives of honest people. We were ashamed to own her," the lady said loftily, as if secretly proud of having such a blot on the Family Name. "You come from a good family, I hear. Well well. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I suppose you are fortunate to grow up so respectably. I, well I could hardly hold my head up. It was such a difficult thing, having an Aunt in whose veins flowed ink instead of blood. I am sure my fate was forever altered by it." The lady sighed heavily, and paused a moment to work the tears into her old eyes. Presently she sighed again and dabbed viciously with a handkerchief of spidery lace. "She was so ungrateful! Our family was of the finest blood, and she refused to claim it. It was just as well. She laughed too much to be dignified. Very queer. Anyone who opens their mouth so often is bound to have their senses leak out eventually. You know how she died," this being more of a statement than a question. "No!" in a dreadfully shocked tone. "Well well. She was digging about in her garden. She kept a gardener but I'm sure I don't know what he did, for she wouldn't let him touch the earth. She was a terrible gardener, my Aunt was. Her plants were forever hovering on the edge of the grave. Perhaps because they were already so near to the ground," here she gave a dour chuckle at her own joke. "At any rate, she had taken it into her head to plant a row of tulips by the back fence, which, as I'm sure you realize, is a very foolish place for tulips. Put them in the front, where they can be seen, we told her. But no, they must go in the back. A perfect waste. Her spade hit an underground bee's nest. She was stung to death! It was a dreadful way to die, even for a writer," she added grudgingly. "Well well. One can't choose the way one dies, I suppose. No one ever finished planting the tulips. The spade is still there where she dropped it.
"Going so soon? Well well. The madness of the youth, I suppose. I can see you haven't learned the art of living aristocratically. We never dash about so unrespectably. The sensibilities of your generation have been hopelessly marred. Disgraceful, I think. But what does it matter what I think? I am just an old woman of no value, and no one wants to listen to me. I suppose it is because of the disgrace my Aunt brought upon us. Do come again, I would be gald to see you, I am sure. Mind you don't let the rain ruin your hat, and don't step into a puddle; it's bad luck on a Friday. Though you look like the sort to attract bad luck any day of the week. I had an uncle like that. Couldn't stay away from the stuff. One time - well well, she's gone. Pity she had to leave so soon. I liked how she talked."

HAPPY 22nd BIRTHDAY ODESSA!!!!!!

Is there anything so beautiful
as anticipation of new life?
Nay, for in that hour
and that alone
All is pure perfection
All is perfect bliss
And thrills of sweet delight
are felt by all.

Congragulations Wilson family! Can't wait for the new arrival.

Friday I auditioned for a play, and last night found out that I got the leading role I was hoping for. WHAT HAPPINESS! What bliss. It is absolutely thrilling. I've never been in a real, professional play before, and the thought that I will be starring in one is simply delicious. It is very difficult to contain my excitement and act in a dignified manner.

I am going to be 19 in four days.
I never thought I could be nineteen. All through my vivid childhood, filled with delicious fantasies and adventures, the oldest I could imagine myself was 18. But never nineteen, and never, ever 21. I remember thinking that I should love to stay seventeen for at least five years.How I loved the number 17! I loved the way it rolled off my tongue. I loved how immediately I could feel so dashing and bold by just saying the word. I had the most fun when I pretended I was seventeen : a soldier and prisoner of war; a circus slave; a pioneer; a western cowboy; Robin Hood (yes, Robin Hood. I loathed Maid Marian); they were simply horrid if played at any other age but seventeen. And I decided that after I'd had my fill of that number (which was unimaginable) I would turn eighteen and get married. 18 was the perfect age for marriage. Why, you were simply an ugly old maid if you waited much past eighteen to get a husband! I would stay eighteen for the rest of my life, and have five stunningly beautiful and noble children, raise them to be Knights and Ladies, and live happily ever after.
Needless to say, that is not how my life played out. 17 was my favorite year, and I was sorry to see it leave. Eighteen has been even better (though I felt rather traitorous for feeling so), and I have laughed heartily over having ever thought I could get married at this age. Good heavens, you can't get married until you're a woman, and I'm feeling oh so far from being one.
But I am feeling old. Yes, I know that's a glaring sign that I am really awfully young. I've never felt any differant after a birthday, but I'm feeling the effects of being nearly nineteen terribly. It's so final. So close to being grown up, it's tragic. After years of wanting to be nice and old and have splendid adventures, I'm finding myself wildly grabbing on to the wisps of childhood I have left. (If you would like to laugh, do go right ahead. I'm being foolish and comical.) But oh heavens. If we could only spend a few more years as children, it would make us so much happier.

"This will be your room," Miss Dollom said, gracefully throwing open the enormous door. "It belonged to my Uncle Edward, before the incident."
Something in the way she said 'used to be' and 'the incident' compelled Helena to say
"What happened to him?"
"He left this earth, poor darling. But he always had it coming. Such a man for the drink! We all agreed afterwards that it was indeed a most fitting end for him."
"I supposed it's the end of most people though, isn't it?" Helena replied philosophically.
"Oh no, Miss Chadwinn, you misunderstand entirely." Miss Dollom said earnestly, her eyes very wide and round. "He did not merely die. He fell off of the edge of the world!"

The new sprung Daffodils
lift their yellow faces and beg the Sun
to reflect their simple glory.
"Come dance with us," they ask the Wind
"And whisper little secrets to our eager, silent hearts."
But scornfully the Sun remains
behind his cloudy screen,
And bids the Wind ignore
their dearest, sweetest pleas.
They droop. Their yellow dresses fade.
"We don't have long to live!" they say.
"We'll play with you another day"
the Sun replies, indifferant to their sighs.
And so the Daffodils die.