_Washington,
April._
You ask me what I do--and what I think of North America? I busy and do
much work, travel and not think of any girls but you. Men I see in
street, without mustache, wear glasses, have dentist fill mouth with
gold, rush about madly and speak, “What say?” and “Sure!” and “Do
tell,” wear celluloid collar and ready-made suit and hang big cigar
from corner of mouth and--spit! Excuse my funs, dear.
People are lavish if you are Prince, turn somersaults on top of each
other to entertain you, but of foreigners suspicious more or less.
All American women have too much freedom and know too well how to
flirt, and too pretty they are for the heart of a man. Most of the men
are uneducate in art and languages and such things; they only know
business and politics.
Many buildings are handsome like in Paris and Berlin, but the cities
rising into the sky are astounding, abominable. The country and the
mountains so very beautiful, they are create to be a home for you, my
little wild bird.
Perhaps you not like me say such things but you ask me. I travel now
again from place to place. Your army is small, and your big guns burst
by each fire. Soon I will be with you at Louisville. Please tell your
Aunt that I kiss her hand, and your little hands, I kiss both.
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