otted with tears, this record of his life--childhood, boyhood, youth,
manhood, humor, passion--veritable growth of an immortal spirit--annals
of that love which lifteth us above the earth--and then!

What did the woman gain who stole our happiness? A fairy gold, changing
to ashes at the glint of day, for which she lost her soul.

Caught in the leaves there is a long pine needle. So it was among the
bull pines of Cathedral Grove that Jesse sought to bury this record.
Then knowing that his life was not all his to bury, he sent me this dear
treasure, so breaking the long, long silence.

How precious are even the littlest memories of love! Here is the muddy
footprint of our kitten, and Jesse's "witness my hand." Here is a scrap
of paper, inked and rinsed to reveal some secret writing of those poor
outlaws. Pages of wrath from our visitors' book--and the long pine
needle.

"Belay thar!" as Jesse said. "We're hunting happiness while sorrow's
chasing us. Takes a keen muzzle and runaway legs to catch up happiness,
while sorrow's teeth is reachin' for yo' tail."

So I must try to catch up happiness. I have notes here of dear Father
Jared, made at the time when he was bringing me with Baby David home. I
remember we sat in our deck chairs on the sunny side of the ship,
watching a cloud race out in mid-Atlantic. We talked of home.

"You see, my dear"--I copy from my notes--"we have in our blessed isles
an atmosphere lending glamour to all things, whether a woman's skin or a
slum town. Why, British portraiture and landscape are respected, even by
our own art critics, and they are far from lenient." I replied that I
wanted air, air for King David.

"Now when we come to air, that's very serious. North of the Tweed the
air produces Scotchness, across St. George's Channel it makes Irishness.
Then in the principality of Wales it makes most people Welsh, to say
nothing of the Yarkshire vintage, or Zummerzet, or the 'umble 'omes of
the East Anglians."

"But that's not what I mean. Some places are so relaxing."

"Or bracing, or just damp, eh? Do you know, my dear, that at Frognall
End mushrooms are fourpence a pound."

"That has nothing to do with it."

"Are you sure?" The delicious fairy-look came to his eyes. "Of course
they prefer the Russian kind of mushrooms with red tops--warmer to sit
on. That's why they love Russia, and Russian hearts stay young. And
besides, they like to live where people are really and truly
superstit