When Chips remembered things like this he often felt that he would write them down and make a book of them; and during his years at Mrs. Wickett's he sometimes went even so far as to make desultory notes in an exercise book. But he was soon brought up against difficulties—the chief one being that writing tired him, both mentally and physically. Somehow, too, his recollections lost much of their flavor when they were written down; that story about Rushton and the sack of potatoes, for instance—it would seem quite tame in print, but Lord, how funny it had been at the time! It was funny, too, to remember it; though perhaps if you didn't remember Rushton... and who would, anyway, after all those years? It was such a long time ago... Mrs. Wickett, did you ever know a fellow named Rushton? Before your time, I dare say... went to Burma in some government job... or was it Borneo?... Very funny fellow, Rushton... And there he was, dreaming again before the fire, dreaming of times and incidents in which he alone could take secret interest. Funny and sad, comic and tragic, they all mixed up in his mind, and some day, however hard it proved, he WOULD sort them out and make a book of them...
(ﾟοﾟ人))✧\(>o<)ﾉ✧⋋✿ ⁰ o ⁰ ✿⋌ヽ༼⁰o⁰；༽ノ(⑉⊙ȏ⊙)(ﾉﾟ0ﾟ)ﾉ~＼(◎o◎)／ヽ༼⁰o⁰；༽ノヾ(*’Ｏ’*)/ヽ༼⁰o⁰；༽ノヾ(*’Ｏ’*)/(ʘᗩʘ’)(ﾟοﾟ人))(｡☬０☬｡)ლ(^o^ლ)＼(◎o◎)／ヽ(｡◕o◕｡)ﾉ.(@_@)＼(◎o◎)／ヽ((◎д◎))ゝヽ((◎д◎))ゝ＼(◎o◎)／ヾ(*’Ｏ’*)/ヽ༼⁰o⁰；༽ノヾ(*’Ｏ’*)/(ﾟοﾟ人))(ﾟοﾟ人))⋋✿ ⁰ o ⁰ ✿⋌(ﾟοﾟ人))(ʘᗩʘ’)(´⊙ω⊙`)！ლ(^o^ლ)(´⊙ω⊙`)！(ﾟοﾟ人))(ﾟοﾟ人))(((;ꏿ_ꏿ;)))⊙.☉(((;ꏿ_ꏿ;)))(‘◉⌓◉’)⊙.☉(‘◉⌓◉’)⊙.☉(‘◉⌓◉’)⊙.☉(ﾟοﾟ人))⋋✿ ⁰ o ⁰ ✿⋌ლ(^o^ლ)ლ(^o^ლ)⋋✿ ⁰ o ⁰ ✿⋌ლ(^o^ლ)⋋✿ ⁰ o ⁰ ✿⋌(ﾟοﾟ人))щ(゜ロ゜щ)щ(゜ロ゜щ)(ﾟοﾟ人))(‘◉⌓◉’)⊙.☉(ʘᗩʘ’)(ﾟοﾟ人))(ﾟοﾟ人))(ʘᗩʘ’)(ʘᗩʘ’)⋋✿ ⁰ o ⁰ ✿⋌(ʘᗩʘ’)(ﾟοﾟ人))(ﾟοﾟ人))
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