raining, were unimportant to her compared with her book.
From her desk drawer she took an old composition book labeled "My Secret Journal," and wrote:
"It's been a wingéd day, because today
The book
has come. What can I say of this thing, a book of poems to others, but my Heart's Blood to me? My pain has gone to make it, and my petal dreams, and no one will know that I cut my feet on the stars when I gathered some of my Singing Words."
She read this, chewing the end of her pen, and added:
"God, give me a Brave Heart and a Singing Soul—give me courage to follow the Path Difficult."
All right for other girls to care about dresses and men and good times. They were not the dedicated spirits, the children of light. She
