I worked in Bushey till late Autumn, then decided to winter again in St. Ives. But first I must return to my London boarding house and get my winter clothing from a trunk stored at Mrs. Dodds! (We were allowed to store trunks in her basement at tuppence a week, a great convenience for students like me who were moving around.) Always, when approaching London, a surge of sinking awfulness swept over me as…
The Station Master’s direction was accurate. “Bushey? Turn by that ’ere pub and keep a-goin’.” The road was a long squirm without any actual turnings. Herkomer had built a theatre in connection with his Bushey art school; more time was now devoted to drama, they said, than to Art. For earnest Art I was advised to go to John Whiteley, Number 9, Meadows Studios. The Meadows Studios stretched in a long row. Of unplaned…
As our train slithered through the small prettiness of Devonshire I was angered. My parents had so lavishly praised its beauty to us when we were children. I wondered if after many years in Canada it would have seemed as small and pinched to them as it did to me seeing it for the first time—something one could fold up and put in his pocket, tiny patches of grass field hemmed about with little…