The Wringer

The other day I noticed that my Muse, who had long been ailing, silent and morose, was showing signs of actual illness. Now, though it is by no means one of my habits to coddle the dogs, cats and other familiars of my household, yet my Muse had so pitiful an appearance that I determined [...]

Among the sadder and smaller pleasures of this world I count this pleasure: the pleasure of taking up one’s pen. It has been said by very many people that there is a tangible pleasure in the mere act of writing: in choosing and arranging words. It has been denied by many. It is affirmed and [...]