July 24th.
_Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs_,
Isn’t it fun to work--or don’t you ever do it? It’s especially fun
when your kind of work is the thing you’d rather do more than
anything else in the world. I’ve been writing as fast as my pen
would go every day this summer, and my only quarrel with life is
that the days aren’t long enough to write all the beautiful and
valuable and entertaining thoughts I’m thinking.
I’ve finished the second draft of my book and am going to begin the
third to-morrow morning at half-past seven. It’s the sweetest book
you ever saw--it is, truly. I think of nothing else. I can barely
wait in the morning to dress and eat before beginning; then I write
and write and write till suddenly I’m so tired that I’m limp all
over. Then I go out with Colin (the new sheep dog) and romp through
the fields and get a fresh supply of ideas for the next day. It’s
the most beautiful book you ever saw--Oh, pardon--I said that
before.
You don’t think me conceited, do you, Daddy dear?
I’m not, really, only just now I’m in the enthusiastic stage.
Maybe later on I’ll get cold and critical and sniffy. No, I’m sure
I won’t! This time I’ve written a real book. Just wait till you see
it.
I’ll try for a minute to talk about something else. I never told
you, did I, that Amasai and Carry got married last May? They are
still working here, but so far as I can see it has spoiled them
both. She used just to laugh when he tramped in mud or dropped ashes
on the floor, but now--you should hear her scold! And she doesn’t
curl her hair any longer. Amasai, who used to be so obliging about
beating rugs and carrying wood, grumbles if you suggest such a
thing. Also his neckties are quite dingy--black and brown, where
they used to be scarlet and purple. I’ve determined never to marry.
It’s a deteriorating process, evidently.
There isn’t much of any farm news. The animals are all in the best
of health. The pigs are unusually fat, the cows seem contented and
the hens are laying well. Are you interested in poultry? If so, let
me recommend that invaluable little work, “200 Eggs per Hen per
Year.” I am thinking of starting an incubator next spring and
raising broilers. You see I’m settled at Lock Willow permanently.
I have decided to stay until I’ve written 114 novels like Anthony
Trollope’s mother. Then I shall have completed my life work and can
retire and travel.
Mr. James McBride spent last Sunday with us. Fried chicken and
ice-cream for dinner, both of which he appeared to appreciate. I was
awfully glad to see him; he brought a momentary reminder that the
world at large exists. Poor Jimmie is having a hard time peddling
his bonds. The Farmers’ National at the Corners wouldn’t have
anything to do with them in spite of the fact that they pay six per
cent. interest and sometimes seven. I think he’ll end by going home
to Worcester and taking a job in his father’s factory. He’s too
open and confiding and kind-hearted ever to make a successful
financier. But to be the manager of a flourishing overall factory is
a very desirable position, don’t you think? Just now he turns up his
nose at overalls, but he’ll come to them.
I hope you appreciate the fact that this is a long letter from a
person with writer’s cramp. But I still love you, Daddy dear, and
I’m very happy. With beautiful scenery all about, and lots to eat
and a comfortable four-post bed and a ream of blank paper and a pint
of ink--what more does one want in the world?
Yours, as always,