[08/12, 12:37 pm] 💙🔒: What I Found In My Pocket

by G. K. Chesterton [?]
Once when I was very young I met one of those men who have made the Empire what it is–a man in an astracan coat, with an
astracan moustache–a tight, black, curly moustache. Whether he put on the moustache with the coat or whether his Napoleonic
will enabled him not only to grow a moustache in the usual place, but also to grow little moustaches all over his clothes, I do not
know. I only remember that he said to me the following words: “A man can’t get on nowadays by hanging about with his hands
in his pockets.” I made reply with the quite obvious flippancy that perhaps a man got on by having his hands in other people’s
pockets; whereupon he began to argue about Moral Evolution, so I suppose what I said had some truth in it. But the incident
now comes back to me, and connects itself with another incident–if you can call it an incident– which happened to me only the
other day.

I have only once in my life picked a pocket, and then (perhaps through some absent-mindedness) I picked my own. My act can
really with some reason be so described. For in taking things out of my own pocket I had at least one of the more tense and
quivering emotions of the thief; I had a complete ignorance and a profound curiosity as to what I should find there. Perhaps it
would be the exaggeration of eulogy to call me a tidy person. But I can always pretty satisfactorily account for all my
possessions. I can always tell where they are, and what I have done with them, so long as I can keep them out of my pockets. If
once anything slips into those unknown abysses, I wave it a sad Virgilian farewell. I suppose that the things that I have dropped
into my pockets are still there; the same presumption applies to the things that I have dropped into the sea. But I regard the
riches stored in both these bottomless chasms with the same reverent ignorance. They tell us that on the last day the sea will
give up its dead; and I suppose that on the same occasion long strings of extraordinary things will come running out of my
pockets. But I have quite forgotten what any of them are; and there is really nothing (excepting the money) that I shall be at all
surprised at finding among them.

.....

Such at least has hitherto been my state of innocence. I here only wish briefly to recall the special, extraordinary, and hitherto
unprecedented circumstances which led me in cold blood, and being of sound mind, to turn out my pockets. I was locked up in a
third-class carriage for a rather long journey. The time was towards evening, but it might have been anything, for everything
resembling earth or sky or light or shade was painted out as if with a great wet brush by an unshifting sheet of quite colourless
rain. I had no books or newspapers. I had not even a pencil and a scrap of paper with which to write a religious epic. There were
no advertisements on the walls of the carriage, otherwise I could have plunged into the study, for any collection of printed words
is quite enough to suggest infinite complexities of mental ingenuity. When I find myself opposite the words “Sunlight Soap” I can
exhaust all the aspects of Sun Worship, Apollo, and Summer poetry before I go on to the less congenial subject of soap. But there
was no printed word or picture anywhere; there was nothing but blank wood inside the carriage and blank wet without. Now I
deny most energetically that anything is, or can be, uninteresting. So I stared at the joints of the walls and seats, and began
thinking hard on the fascinating subject of wood. Just as I had begun to realise why, perhaps, it was that Christ was a carpenter,
rather than a bricklayer, or a baker, or anything else, I suddenly started upright, and remembered my pockets. I was carrying
about with me an unknown treasury. I had a British Museum and a South Kensington collection of unknown curios hung all
over me in different places. I began to take the things out.
[08/12, 12:44 pm] 💙🔒: The Little Girl Summary
The Little Girl Summary – ‘The Little Girl’ is the story of a little girl, Kezia who misunderstood her father’s strictness and usually
remained scared of him. She kept a distance from him, whenever he would be at home. She considered him to be as big as a
giant. She would often get nervous and stutter while talking to him. She longed for his love and affection like her neighbour Mr
Macdonald.

Once she was kept indoors as she was affected by cold. Her grandmother suggested that she make a gift for her father’s birthday
next week. They decided that Kezia would make a pincushion for him. Kezia made a beautiful pin-cushion; but she accidentally
made a mistake. She filled it with bits of paper that she got by tearing her father’s important speech. She was punished for that.
This incident further estranged Kezia from her father.

She would often look at the neighbours, the Macdonalds playing joyously in their lawn. Mr. Macdonald was such a good father
and played so lovingly with his children. She wondered he might be a different sort of father.

Once her mother fell ill and was hospitalized. She was left alone at home under the care of the cook. At night she had a
nightmare and woke up screaming. She found her father standing by her bedside. He picked her up and took her to her room.
He tucked her up in his bed and soon fell asleep. Kezia felt secure lying near her father. She realized that her father was not as
big as a giant. She felt the beating of her father’s loving large heart. Finally, she realized her father was very loving and had a
generous heart.