He remembered everything. Maybe that was why he was such a great writer. What he remembered he'd put on paper, but it came out different, more intere… - Patricia Reilly Giff

Outside it had begun to rain, a fine mist of a rain: fall leaves were plastered to the walkway, and puddles filled with bits of hay and coal lay in the street. A nice bit to remember for the writing. Water Street! He loved to look at it.

But what gave him the most satisfaction was going back through the pages to read about his first story appearing in the Saturday Evening Post. That afternoon he'd bought Bird the largest bag of lemon drops he could find. "He gives her candy," she had said, remembering too.

Bird. A good name for her. She wasn't a sparrow or a songbird, though. She stood so straight, and her face was strong.