I'd had the opening lines of the story in my mind for a good many weeks, only waiting for a typewriter to get them onto paper. They were fairly bubbling out of my head as I placed my hands on the keys.
What I wanted to type was:
The day was crisp and clear, with the promise of a mild afternoon in the air. It was the beginning of April, and Spring rustled her greenness and yawned leisurely. I walked along happily.
It was beautiful. I started to type.
During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing along, on horseback....
I stopped typing.
I stared at the sheet of paper in the machine.
I looked at it again.
"Hm," I said aloud, "isn't that funny?"
I shrugged, ripped the paper out of the machine, inserted another sheet, and started again.