And it wrote.
"Are you ready to take your feet out now, Missy?"
Missy raised her head impatiently. It was Aunt Nettie in the door.
What was she talking about--feet?--feet? How could Aunt Nettie?
. . . . . .
"Oh! go away, won't you, please?" she cried vehemently.
"Well, did you ever?" gasped Aunt Nettie. She stood in the doorway a
minute; then tiptoed away. But Missy was oblivious; the inspired
pencil was speeding back and forth again--"Then each craft passes on
into the unutterable darkness--" and the pencil, too, went on and
on.
. . . . . .
There was a sound of tiptoeing again at the door, of whispering; but
the author took no notice. Then someone entered, bearing a pitcher
of hot water; but the author gave no sign. Someone poured hot water
into the foot-tub; the author wriggled her feet.
"Too hot, dear?" said mother's voice. The author shook her head
abstractedly. Words were singing in her ears to drown all else. They
flowed through her whole being, down her arms, out through her hand
and pencil, wrote themselves immortally. Oh, this was Inspiration!
Feeling at last immeshed in tangibility, swimming out on a tide of
words that rushed along so fast pencil could hardly keep up with
them.
Pages:
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392