John Grier Home.
Thursday.
Dear Enemy:
"Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in." Hasn't that a very
philosophical, detached, Lord of the Universe sound? It comes from
Thoreau, whom I am assiduously reading at present. As you see, I have
revolted against your literature and taken to my own again. The last
two evenings have been devoted to "Walden," a book as far removed as
possible from the problems of the dependent child.
Did you ever read old Henry David Thoreau? You really ought. I think
you'd find him a congenial soul. Listen to this: "Society is commonly
too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to
acquire any new value for each other. It would be better if there were
but one habitation to a square mile, as where I live." A pleasant,
expansive, neebor-like man he must have been! He minds me in some ways
o' Sandy.
This is to tell you that we have a placing-out agent visiting us. She is
about to dispose of four chicks, one of them Thomas Kehoe. What do you
think? Ought we to risk it? The place she has in mind for him is a farm
in a no-license portion of Connecticut, where he will work hard for
his board, and live in the farmer's family. It sounds exactly the right
thing, and we can't keep him here forever; he'll have to be turned out
some day into a world full of whisky.
I'm sorry to tear you away from that cheerful work on "Dementia Precox,"
but I'd be most obliged if you'd drop in here toward eight o'clock for a
conference with the agent.