The early morning, before one has breakfasted, is not, I take it, a good season for literary effort.

I wrote three paragraphs of a story, and then read them over to myself.

Some unkind things have been said about my work; but nothing has yet been written which would have done justice to those three paragraphs.

I threw them into the waste-paper basket, and sat trying to remember what, if any, charitable institutions provided pensions for decayed authors.
To escape from this train of reflection, I put a golf-ball in my pocket, and selecting a driver, strolled out into the paddock.

A couple of sheep were browsing there, and they followed and took a keen interest in my practice.