That we are all being reduced to one dead level, that character abounds no more and life itself is less interesting, such things I have read, but I do not believe them.

I have even seen them given as my reason for writing of a past time, and in that at least there is no truth.

In our little town, which is a sample of many, life is as interesting, as pathetic, as joyous as ever it was; no group of weavers was better to look at or think about than the rivulet of winsome girls that overruns our streets every time the sluice is raised, the comedy of summer evenings and winter firesides is played with the old zest and every window-blind is the curtain of a romance.

Once the lights of a little town are lit, who could ever hope to tell all its story, or the story of a single wynd in it?
And who looking at lighted windows needs to turn to books?
The reason my books deal with the past instead of with the life I myself have known is simply this, that I soon grow tired of writing tales unless I can see a little girl, of whom my mother has told me, wandering confidently through the pages.

Such a grip has her memory of her girlhood had upon me since I was a boy of six.
Those innumerable talks with her made her youth as vivid to me as my own, and so much more quaint, for, to a child, the oddest of things, and the most richly coloured picture-book, is that his mother was once a child also, and the contrast between what she is and what she was is perhaps the source of all humour.