I read my own books sometimes to cheer me when it is hard to write, and then I remember that it was always difficult, and how nearly impossible it was sometimes.
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring - not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
It's a grand thing to be able to take your money in your hand and to think no more of it when it slips away from you than you would a trout that would slip back into the stream.