Daddy-Long-Legs
The only thing that keeps me from starting a collection if the fact that no rule exists against it.
Good-bye–I’ll promise never to be horrid again, because now I know you’re a real person; also I’ll promiss never to bother you with any more questions. Do you still hate girls?
This dormitory, owing to its age and ivy-covered walls, is full of centipedes. They are dreadful creatures. I’d rather find a tiger under the bed.
Examinations are coming, but who’s afraid?
The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.
The world is full of happiness, and plenty to go round, if you are only willing to take the kind that comes your way. The whole secret is in being pliable.
It isn’t the great big pleasures that count the most; it’s making a great deal out of the little ones–I’ve discovered the true secret of happiness, Daddy, and that is to live in the now. Not to be forever regretting the past, or anticipating the future; but to get the most that you can out of this very instant.
Most people don’t live; they just race. They are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose all sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it doesn’t make any difference whether they’ve reached the goal or not. I’ve decided to sit down by the way and pile up a lot of little happinesses, even if I never become a great author.
Don’t you think it would be interesting if you really could read the story of your life–written perfectly truthfully by an omniscient author? And suppose you could only read it on this condition: that you would never forget it, but would have to go through life knowing ahead of time exactly how everything you did would turn out, and foreseeing to the exact hour the time when you would die. How many people do you suppose would have the courage to read it then? Or how many could suppress their curiosity sufficiently to escape from reading it, even at the price of having to live without hope and without surprises?
I don’t know why I cast such a misty atmosphere over life. I hasten to assure you that I am young and happy and exuberant; and I trust you are the same. Youth has nothing to do with birthdays, only with alivedness of spirit, so even if your hair is gray, Daddy, you can still be a boy.
I know lots of girls who never know that they are happy. They are so accustomed to the feeling that their senses are deadened to it, but as for me–I am perfectly sure every moment of my life that I am happy. And I’m going to keep on being, no matter what unpleasant things turn up. I’m going to regard them as interesting experiences, and be glad to know what they feel like. “Whatever sky’s above me, I’ve a heart for any fate.”
You are most convincing when you write aout the things you know.
If you just want a thing hard enough and keep on trying, you do get it in the end. I’ve been trying for four years to get a letter from you–and I haven’t given up hope yet.
Perhaps when two people are exactly in accord, and always happy when together and lonely when apart, they ought not to let anything in the world stand between them.
