We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
>6
win
9
February, 1952
full of good fun with the boys. But I awoke a year or so later to find the boys grown up, graduated, gone out into the big world, to repeat the mis' takes I had made.
Twenty years! What had I done with them? What did I get out of them? They went so fast that I had time only to blink at each one, no time to sample the golden hours as they passed. No time for anything but work and trivialities; that seems to be my trouble, and it is a common complaint of busy men, those who can sit still long enough to think enough to complain.
Why have we so little time? Where does it go? Or, rather, why isn't 24 hours enough? I never had more than that, but I can remember when I had time— long Sunday afternoons when I could read books, undisturbed, and with no feeling that there were a dozen other things I should be doing; evenings that seemed like whole eve' nings, to play the piano or sing or read, or in winter study my lessons. It was an unhurried life we led, more than a generation ago. We had only a few good friends, and when we visited them we stayed much of the day — a leisurely day that did not fly past like a tumble weed in an April wind.
When we came from Downs to Lawrence to college we did not expect to make the trip in four hours; but rode the slow Central Branch, changed trains a time or two, making connections if we were lucky; if not, lounging around the depot for some hours or perhaps all night. I remember well the evening my sister and I missed connections at Beloit, and sat out be
hind the depot most of the night, reciting poetry and talking of our plans and ambitions, and theories of the good life. It was full moon, and there was a mist on the field of ripening wheat across the fence, and the frogs were croaking from the creek nearby. Sister has been gone these many years, but I can close my eyes and see that lovely, peaceful scene as if I had been there only yesterday. An interruption of our journey, at which I no doubt cursed with vigor, had enriched my life with an unforgettable experience. It was an enforced leisure, but how rich and en. during!
SOME classes of people probably have more leisure than they used to have. The vast productivity of modern industry has made it pos' sible to reduce the work day of laborers, and they doubtless have more leisure. In the home, the washing and ironing machines, dishwashers, dis
". . . Sincerely yours, etc. Now read me back your version, Miss Lamson."