Without a Home

Excerpt

Just ten years ago I took my first hesitating and dubious steps
toward authorship.  My reception on the part of the public has been
so much kinder than I expected, and the audience that has listened
to my stories with each successive autumn has been so steadfast and
loyal, that I can scarcely be blamed for entertaining a warm and
growing regard for these unseen, unknown friends.  Toward indifferent
strangers we maintain a natural reticence, but as acquaintance
ripens into friendship there is a mutual impulse toward an exchange
of confidences.  In the many kind letters received I have gratefully
recognized this impulse in my readers, and am tempted by their
interest to be a little garrulous concerning my literary life, the
causes which led to it, and the methods of my work.  Those who are
indifferent can easily skip these preliminary pages, and those who
are learning to care a little for the personality of him who has
come to them so often with the kindling of the autumn fires may
find some satisfaction in learning why he comes, and the motive,
the spirit with which, in a sense, he ventures to be present at
their hearths.