We come and go, but the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the people who own it — for a little while. - Willa Cather

We sat looking off across the country, watching the sun go down. The curly grass about us was on fire now. The bark of the oaks turned red as copper. There was a shimmer of gold on the brown river. Out in the stream the sandbars glittered like glass, and the light trembled in the willow thickets as if the little flames were leaping among them. The breeze sank to stillness. In the ravine a ringdove mourned plaintively, and somewhere off in the bushes an owl hooted. The girls sat listless, leaning against each other. The long fingers of the sun touched their foreheads.

Some memories are realities and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.

Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness.