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Excerpt from Yellow Men and Gold
During my thirtieth year, and not many months after a first real success with the public, I allowed hope to die out in my breast for a little interval; and love, which is the same thing. I said good-by to my first mem ory of her, and to my last; to that mischie vous rolling ball of femininity in a blue and white blanket coat, burbling and prattling, that I had toted, closely hugged, in my thin boy arms; to that later picture of her, wonder fully slender, in frosty white, with a great black hat, and innumerable little terriers that dogged her steps across a lawn set with dande lions (as the heavens with stars) and looked up into her face. She had in one hand a pair of pruning-shears, for we had said good-by, and it was in her mind to comfort me with a rose.
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