Benedict Freedman

Every night we stopped in a cabin where wood had been stacked, matches left, and canned goods laid out for the chance traveler. All the unknown host received in return was a scribbled note giving our thanks, any news we could think of, and our names. This whole system of northern hospitality was a gigantic chain, for while we were eating this man__ beans, he was undoubtedly farther up the trail, eating somebody else__.

She__ a gray woman with gray sayings._ __ crape-hanger.

I felt afraid. No one would know that, not Mother and not Mike. I__ keep the fear pushed down inside of me, and no one would know it was there. ____ awfully happy,_ I wrote. I was. Awfully happy and awfully in love, and tomorrow I was marrying Mike.

Katherine Mary, w'er going to know each other very well, for many years, I hope. You'll see, you'll come to understand. These big things, these terrible things, are not the important ones. If they were, how could one go on living? No, it is the small, little things that make up a day, that bring fullness and happiness to your life. Your Sergeant coming home, a good dinner, your little Mary laughing, the smell of the woods - oh, so many things, you know them yourself