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I wish no other estimate than a correct one; and when the
public indicate that they have had enough of Roe, I shall neither
whine nor write.
As a rule, I certainly stumble on my stories, as well as stumble
through them perhaps. Some incident or unexpected impulse is the
beginning of their existence. One October day I was walking on a
country road, and a chestnut burr lay in my path. I said to
myself, "There is a book in that burr, if I could get it out."
With little volition on my part, the story "Opening a Chestnut
Burr" took form and was written.
One summer evening, when in New York, I went up to Thomas's
Garden, near Central Park, to hear the delicious music he was
educating us to appreciate. At a certain point in the programme I
noticed that the next piece would be Beethoven's Fifth Symphony,
and I glanced around with a sort of congratulatory impulse, as
much as to say, "Now we shall have a treat." My attention was
immediately arrested and fixed by a young girl who, with the
gentleman escorting her, was sitting near by.


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