| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood by Howard Pyle: his clothes also, for Robin Hood's garb tickled his eye.
So each put on the other fellow's clothes, and Robin gave the honest
Cobbler ten bright new shillings. Quoth merry Robin, "I ha'
been a many things in my life before, but never have I been
an honest cobbler. Come, friend, let us fall to and eat,
for something within me cackles aloud for that good fat capon."
So both sat down and began to feast right lustily, so that when they
were done the bones of the capon were picked as bare as charity.
Then Robin stretched his legs out with a sweet feeling of comfort within him.
Quoth he, "By the turn of thy voice, good Quince, I know that thou hast
a fair song or two running loose in thy head like colts in a meadow.
The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Tin Woodman of Oz by L. Frank Baum: people."
"May I see him?" asked Woot the Wanderer, after a
moment's thought.
"If it please you to wait a moment, I will go and ask
him," said the servant, and then he went into the hall
where the Tin Woodman sat with his friend the
Scarecrow. Both were glad to learn that a stranger had
arrived at the castle, for this would give them
something new to talk about, so the servant was asked
to admit the boy at once.
By the time Woot the Wanderer had passed through the
The Tin Woodman of Oz |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Art of Writing by Robert Louis Stevenson: admiring.' I was here brought up with a reflection
exceedingly just in itself, but which, as the sequel shows, I
failed to profit by. I saw that Marryat, not less than
Homer, Milton, and Virgil, profited by the choice of a
familiar and legendary subject; so that he prepared his
readers on the very title-page; and this set me cudgelling my
brains, if by any chance I could hit upon some similar belief
to be the centre-piece of my own meditated fiction. In the
course of this vain search there cropped up in my memory a
singular case of a buried and resuscitated fakir, which I had
been often told by an uncle of mine, then lately dead,
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