These six notecards turned up in the gift shop of The Mount, Edith Wharton’s home in the Berkshires. They’re all from The New Yorker, which means they have nothing to do with Wharton, or The Mount, or its gardens, or my trip to the Berkshires — except that I bought them in The Mount’s shop.
So why were they there? Because Wharton advocated finding happiness in small ways? (See previous post for details.) That would be a very good reason, although it probably isn’t the reason. I’m sure a baker’s dozen of these small pleasures were in the shop because they sell.
They sure got me. When I saw them, I couldn’t not smile. (Of course I also thought, almost at once, “Blog!” Which opened the purse strings even if I’d had more self control.) My apologies to dog people. What can I say? I have cats? But you know that already.