This grass is more beautiful to me now that I know why it is grass, and all the hidden chemistry of sun and rain and earth that makes it become grass.

Why, there is romance in the life-history of any grass, yes, and adventure, too.

The very thought of it stirs me.

When I think of the play of force and matter, and all the tremendous struggle of it, I feel as if I could write an epic on the grass.
"How well you talk," she said absently, and he noted that she was looking at him in a searching way.
He was all confusion and embarrassment on the instant, the blood flushing red on his neck and brow.
"I hope I am learning to talk," he stammered.

"There seems to be so much in me I want to say.