Writing
Writing is a cognitive and social activity involving neuropsychological and physical processes and the use of writing systems to create persistent representations of human language.
The Library
These old books don’t look very interesting. I want to go to college more than John does. But I don’t suppose I ever can, now.
Acording to the will left by that eccentric old lady, Miss Nan Corliss, her nephew, Dr. Corliss,—whom she had not seen for thirty years,—was to receive the old house at Crowfield. His wife inherited all the furniture of the old house, except what was in the library.
John Corliss, the only grandnephew, was to have two thousand dollars to send him to college when he should be old enough to go. And to Mary, the unknown grandniece whom she had never seen, Aunt Nan had declared should belong “my library room at Crowfield, with everything therein remaining.
My library room at Crowfield, with everything therein remaining.
Mary was now going to see what her library was like, and what therein remained. She drew a long breath, turned the key, pushed open the door, and peered cautiously into the room, half expecting something to jump out at her. But nothing of the sort happened. John pushed her in impatiently, and they all followed, eager, as John said, to see “what sister had drawn.” Dr. Corliss himself had never been inside this room, Aunt Nan’s most sacred corner.
What they saw was a plain, square room, with shelves from floor to ceiling packed tightly with rows of solemn-looking books. In one corner stood a tall clock, over the top of which perched a stuffed crow, black and stern. In the center of the room was a table-desk, with papers scattered about, just as Aunt Nan had left it weeks before. On the mantel above the fireplace was a bust of Shakespeare and some smaller ornaments, with an old tin lantern.
[Left, a postcard from the day reads: “This is the barbecue we had last night. My picture is to the left with a cross over it.]
But she meant to be kind, I am sure. I never knew why she refused to see any of her family, all of a sudden—some whim, I suppose. She came to be a sort of hermitess after a while. She loved her books more than anything in the world. It meant a great deal that she wanted you to have them, Mary.
Mary was now going to see what her library was like, and what therein remained. She drew a long breath, turned the key, pushed open the door, and peered cautiously into the room, half expecting something to jump out at her. But nothing of the sort happened. John pushed her in impatiently, and they all followed, eager, as John said, to see “what sister had drawn.” Dr. Corliss himself had never been inside this room, Aunt Nan’s most sacred corner.