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of my hopes. The commonplace meadows
blossomed with flowers of beauty; and buttercups and
daisies looked to me like rare orchids and hothouse
roses. Between what really happened to enlarge and
brighten my horizon, and what I believed had happened, and what I continually expected to happen,
the world widened, existence grew in interest, and
earth palpitated with new experiences as the years
passed. Always I expected more and more of life,
and always it came in some guise.
Such a temperament must have its season of despair,
its melancholy moods, its self-depreciating periods,
and its times of utter dejection. In early youth, such
moods came and went like the sudden changes in our
American climate in a spring month. But in my
darkest hours, there was always a consciousness of
life's wonderful interest --- an intensity of enjoyment
even of my own miseries. I was frequently sorry for
the dull souls who did not know how to be so unutterably wretched as I could be.
I cannot recall a moment of my life when I wished
I had not been born. I have always realized the
inestimable privilege of living. Yet, despite this fact,
life in that early period, even, meant bitter battles with
those moods of discouragement and despondency,
which seemed to grow in duration and intensity as I
entered more fully into an understanding of the world
and of myself, and realized how much I wanted to do,
to have, and to be, and how difficult was the attainment, virtually alone and remote from the arenas of
action, for my home was in Wisconsin, on a prairie,
a dozen miles from a town, and five from a post-office.
When a post-office was established three miles away,
I felt I was beginning to enjoy the luxuries of a
metropolis.
