n
for getting the kernels out of their shells. Ten minutes a day will do
wonders for the nut-cracker. "I am growing so peevish about my writing,"
says Flaubert. "I am like a man whose ear is true, but who plays falsely
on the violin: his fingers refuse to reproduce precisely those sounds of
which he has the inward sense. Then the tears come rolling down from the
poor scraper's eyes and the bow falls from his hand."

The same brilliant Frenchman sent this sound advice to his pupil, Guy de
Maupassant: "Whatever may be the thing which one wishes to say, there is
but one word for expressing it, only one verb to animate it, only one
adjective to qualify it. It is essential to search for this word, for
this verb, for this adjective, until they are discovered, and to be
satisfied with nothing else."

Walter Savage Landor once wrote: "I hate false words, and seek with
care, difficulty, and moroseness those that fit the thing." So did
Sentimental Tommy, as related by James M. Barrie in his novel bearing
his hero's name as a title. No wonder T. Sandys became an author and a
lion!

Tommy, with another lad, is writing an essay on "A Day in Church," in
competition for a university scholarship. He gets on finely until he
pauses for lack of a word. For nearly an hour he searches for this
elusive thing, until suddenly he is told that the allotted time is up,
and he has lost! Barrie may tell the rest:

Essay! It was no more an essay than a twig is a tree, for the
gowk had stuck in the middle of his second page. Yes, stuck is
the right expression, as his chagrined teacher had to admit when
the boy was cross-examined. He had not been "up to some of his
tricks;" he had stuck, and his explanations, as you will admit,
merely emphasized his incapacity.

He had brought himself to public scorn for lack of a word. What
word? they asked testily; but even now he could not tell. He had
wanted a Scotch word that would signify how many people were in
church, and it was on the tip of his tongue, but would come no
farther. Puckle was nearly the word, but it did not mean so many
people as he meant. The hour had gone by just like winking; he
had forgotten all about time while searching his mind for the
word.

* * * * *

The other five [examiners] were furious.... "You little tattie
doolie," Cathro roared, "were there not a dozen words to wile
from