Summary

Portrait of Harry Leon Wilson Harry Leon Wilson The Boss of Little Arcady — The Book of Little Miss

The small, mighty, night-eyed, well-completed Miss Lansdale, with the voice of a golden jangle, had frozen it about me in lavish abundance.
I went home to play the game, until my eyes tired so that the face of king, queen, and knave leered at me in defeat or simpered sickeningly when I was able to shape their destinies. Thrice I lost interestingly and with profit to my soul, and once I won, though without elation, for we know that little skill may be needed to win when the cards fall right; whereas, to lose profitably is a mark of supreme merit.
Source: Wikisource

Portrait of Harry Leon Wilson Harry Leon Wilson The Boss of Little Arcady — The Book of Little Miss

I've a thousand arms all crying for you."
Slowly she made her eyes come to mine—not without effort, for we were close.
"I am glad we left you,"—she had meant to say "that arm," I judge, but there was a break in her voice, a swift movement, and she suddenly said "this arm," with a little shudder in which she could not meet my eyes; for, such as the arm was, she had finished her speech from within it. Close I held her, like a witless moonling, forgetting all resolves, all lessons, all treaties—all but that she was not a dream woman.
Source: Wikisource

Portrait of Harry Leon Wilson Harry Leon Wilson The Boss of Little Arcady — The Book of Little Miss

Sometimes in a half doze he breathes a long, almost human sigh of perfect and despairing comprehension, as if the whole dead weight of his race's history flashed upon him; as if the woful failure of his species to achieve anything worth while, and the daily futilities of himself as an individual dog were suddenly revealed. In such instants he knows, perhaps, that there is little reward in being a dog, unless you cheat yourself by believing more than the facts warrant.
Source: Wikisource

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