O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

As soon as I began, it seemed impossible to write fast enough - I wrote faster than I would write a letter - two thousand to three thousand words in a morning, and I cannot help it.

If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.

If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.