_Black Horse Farm,
March._
At the farm again. It is lonely up here without you. The winter with
its drifting snow was fine, but now that is melting. The roads are
muddy and make such hard pulling for the horses that Checkers is
hitching up four while I write, and I plan to drive them.
How you would laugh if you could see me; I am the funniest looking
object--huge rubber boots, a queer-looking short skirt with half a
yard of tear down the side made by the bull pup, (he is the dearest
thing, though) an old brown jacket very much the worse for wear, a
Scotch tam, and Checker’s furry gloves--you know what I mean, the
lovely pussy ones. Now we are off!
_Later, a postscript._
This afternoon Checkers and I had a horseback ride and I can
sympathize with you after your Campagna rides, for I don’t feel as
spry as I might. Though, after all, you have Mona Lisa with you to
while away the time, and I?--Well, Boris is coming to America soon, so
you’d better be on your best behavior. It is midnight and I have
hopped into bed and spilt the ink; it’s high time I stopped writing
and went to sleep and to dream of--well, of one of you, anyway.
* * * * *