This month I must begin by wishing you very many happy returns of the
day, and I trust that the mail will live up to its reputation and
deliver my letter in time for the auspicious occasion. God bless you, my
dear boy, and send you all happiness and prosperity. You are now
thirty-six years old—still a very young man to hold the responsible
position you have made for yourself. Yet to me it seems strange to think
that when I was your age I had been married and settled for sixteen
years! I was only a boy of twenty when I married your dear Mother! Her
memory is very near and dear to me at this time, as indeed, at all
times. You must never think that, because I have formed other ties of
late years, I do not think of her with the deepest affection. But I know
you do not think so. You know that there is room in my heart for both:
and it is a great happiness to me to have a son whose face recalls, even
more vividly as the years go by, that of my dear first wife.
I was greatly pleased to have your letter and to know that the work goes
so well. Yours is a great opportunity. I know how proud and happy I
should have been at your age to have the advantage of working under so
distinguished a man as Sir Maurice. In my opinion he is the greatest
engineer of his day. It is most gratifying that he should entrust so
much of the responsible work to you. Be very careful to check _every_
figure and test _everything_, no matter how small, before it is put in
place. The most brilliant calculations will not compensate for a
defective bolt. Dolby’s is a first-class firm, but it is a sound rule to
take nothing for granted.
As you see, I am down in the old shack for my usual holiday. I was
obliged to take it rather late this year, as I could not be spared from
the office till we had got the new power-station through. However, the
weather is fortunately very favourable, and I have been able to do a
good deal of sketching as well as rambling after fungi. I missed our old
Puff-ball friend, _Lycoperdon giganteum_, of course, but I gathered a
beautiful dish of the little _Amethyst Agaric_ yesterday, and to-morrow
morning I am going out in search of _Amanita rubescens_, which I intend
to try very slowly and delicately stewed in beef broth, or in a
mock-beef gravy of _Fistulina Hepatica_, if I can find one in good
condition. I do not know whether any one has ever tried this combination
of two fungi. If it is a success I shall give the recipe in the little
book I am writing on _Neglected Edible Treasures_. Messrs. Hopkin &
Bigelow are interested in my “operculum,” and I rather think they mean
to publish it.
I am sorry you are not here to go a-mushrooming with me. Margaret, of
course, does not care for this kind of camp-life—I could not expect it
of such a thorough little town-bird as she is—so I have had to become
an old bachelor for the time being. I am hoping that young Lathom will
come out with me sometimes on sketching expeditions. He seems a very
decent, friendly young fellow, and it is very pleasant to have a
fellow-artist in the place, with whom to exchange ideas. He runs in and
out of our flat frequently of an evening, and we are always glad to see
him. His lively chatter seems to amuse Margaret, and it is nice to have
some young life about the place. We do not see quite so much of his
friend Munting. He is reserved and quiet and talks modestly enough,
though I believe he has written a book of very _risqué_ verse and a
rather salacious novel. Margaret says she dislikes his sarcastic manner,
but I cannot say I have found him in any way objectionable. Miss Milsom
seems to have taken offence at something he said to her, but then she is
not a particularly sensible woman. Nothing I can say will stop her
putting dripping in the pan when frying a steak, which is a great
nuisance. She has no real feeling for cookery.
Well, my boy, I have written rather a long letter, and I must stop now,
as I see the lad approaching with the bread, and I must secure his
services to take this to the post. I enclose a little cheque, as an
offering which is always suitable in every season and country, and
remain,
With every good wish,
Your affectionate Father,
GEO. HARRISON