"Happy books are not very plentiful, and when one discovers a happy book it is one's duty to tell one's friends about it, so that it makes them happy too. My happy book is called 'Olivia.' It is by a certain young woman who calls herself O. Douglas, though I suspect that it's a pen-name.... Olivia can write the most fascinating letters you ever read."--JAMES DOUGLAS in the Star.
art that keeps on the windy side of care, as Beatrice puts it; and hair that curls naturally. I have no grudge against the fairies. If they had given me straight hair and brains I might have been a Suffragist and shamed my kin by biting a policeman; and that would have been a pity.
G. and I are crouched in a corner, very awed and sad. A poor man died suddenly yesterday from heart failure, and the funeral is just over. I do hope I shall never again see a burial at sea. It was terrible. The bell tolled and the ship slowed down and almost stopped, while the body, wrapped in a Union Jack, was slipped into the water, committed to the deep in sure and certain hope of a blessed resurrection. In a minute it was all over.
The people are laughing and talking again; the dressing-bugle has sounded; things go on as if nothing had happened. We are steaming ahead, leaving the body--such a little speck it looked on the great water--far behind.
It is the utter loneliness of