eldest warred against the decay of manners in the village children, and
executed frontal attacks upon the village mothers for the conquest of
courtesies. It sounds futile, but it was really a war for an idea. The
second skirmished and scouted all over the country; and it was that one
who pushed a reconnaissance right to my very table--I mean the one who
wore stand-up collars.

She was really calling upon my wife in the soft spirit of afternoon
friendliness, but with her usual martial determination. She marched into
my room swinging her stick . . . but no--I mustn't exaggerate. It is not
my specialty. I am not a humoristic writer. In all soberness, then, all
I am certain of is that she had a stick to swing.

No ditch or wall encompassed my abode. The window was open; the door,
too, stood open to that best friend of my work, the warm, still sunshine
of the wide fields. They lay around me infinitely helpful, but, truth to
say, I had not known for weeks whether the sun shone upon the earth and
whether the stars above still moved on their appointed courses. I was
just then giving up some days of my allotted span to the last chapters
of the novel "Nostromo," a tale of an imaginary (but true) seaboard,
which is still mentioned now and again, and indeed kindly, sometimes in
connection with the word "failure" and sometimes in conjunction with the
word "astonishing." I have no opinion on this discrepancy. It's the sort
of difference that can never be settled. All I know is that, for twenty
months, neglecting the common joys of life that fall to the lot of the
humblest on this earth, I had, like the prophet of old, "wrestled with
the Lord" for my creation, for the headlands of the coast, for the
darkness of the Placid Gulf, the light on the snows, the clouds in the
sky, and for the breath of life that had to be blown into the shapes
of men and women, of Latin and Saxon, of Jew and Gentile. These are,