Words Aren't Made — They Grow,' Said

It Doesn't Take Long To Stay An Hour.

Hark, I Hear A Robin Calling! List, The Wind Is From The South! And The Orchard-bloom Is Falling Sweet As Kisses On The Mouth. In The Dreamy Vale Of Beeches Fair And Faint Is Woven Mist, And The River's Orient Reaches Are The Palest Amethyst. Every Limpid Brook Is Singing Of The Lure Of April Days; Every Piney Glen Is Ringing With The Maddest Roundelays. Come And Let Us Seek Together Springtime Lore Of Daffodils, Giving To The Golden Weather Greeting On The Sun-warm Hills.

Behind Them In The Garden The Little Stone House Brooded Among The Shadows. It Was Lonely But Not Forsaken. It Had Not Yet Done With Dreams And Laughter And The Joy Of Life; There Were To Be Future Summers For The Little Stone House; Meanwhile, It Could Wait. And Over The River In Purple Durance The Echoes Bided Their Time.

Don't Try To Write Anything You Can't Feel - It Will Be A Failure - 'echoes Nothing Worth

But You Have Such Dimples," Said Anne, Smiling Affectionately Into The Pretty, Vivacious Face So Near Her Own. "lovely Dimples, Like Little Dents In Cream. I Have Given Up All Hope Of Dimples. My Dimple-dream Will Never Come True; But So Many Of My Dreams Have That I Mustn't Complain. Am I All Ready Now?