Excerpt from a letter from Virginia Stephen to Saxon Sydney-Turner, 13 June 1910. The writer, later known as Virginia Woolf, was 28 years old at the time.

I write, more to mitigate my own lot than to please you. The rain falls, and the birds never give over singing, and hot sulphur fumes rise from the valleys, and the red cow roars for her calf. In these circumstances you would address yourself to Chaucer, and master his habits before tea. I have tried, but cant persist--I pick chocolates out of a box, and worry my sister.

Here, in Harmony, it is also raining, but there are no sulphur fumes to speak of, merely the distant drone of a tree skidder, a car or so hissing by on the wet road, a proprietary rooster admonishing his hens. Perhaps I should address myself to Chaucer, and master his habits before tea. I will, I hope, address myself to Wordsworth; certainly, I must address myself to the textbook editing. I would like to address myself to myself, and the rain offers the comfortable pretext for believing such an address might be possible.

But I do think this little passage from Virginia's letter is beautiful. So in a way it doesn't matter what I manage to do today, now that I've read it. If nothing else, I feel vindicated in my use of "and." It's my favorite word, you know.