[The lady to whom the following letter is addressed, as well as a good
many others to come, had been a close friend of the Stevenson family
at Bournemouth, and on their departure had been trusted to keep an eye
on their interests in connection with their house (which had been let)
and other matters, and to report thereon from time to time. In their
correspondence Stevenson is generally referred to as the Squire and the
lady as the Gamekeeper.]
[SARANAC LAKE, December, 1887.]
MY DEAR MISS BOODLE,—I am so much afraid, our gamekeeper may
weary of unacknowledged reports! Hence, in the midst of a
perfect horror of detestable weathers of a quite incongruous
strain, and with less desire for correspondence than—well,
than—well, with no desire for correspondence, behold me
dash into the breach. Do keep up your letters. They are most
delightful to this exiled backwoods family; and in your next,
we shall hope somehow or other to hear better news of you
and yours—that, in the first place—and to hear more news of
our beasts and birds and kindly fruits of the earth and those
human tenants who are (truly) too much with us.
I am very well; better than for years: that is for good.
But then my wife is no great shakes; the place does not suit
her—it is my private opinion that no place does—and she is
now away down to New York for a change, which (as Lloyd is
in Boston) leaves my mother and me and Valentine alone in
our wind-beleaguered hilltop hatbox of a house. You should
hear the cows butt against the walls in the early morning
while they feed; you should also see our back log when the
thermometer goes (as it does go) away—away below zero, till
it can be seen no more by the eye of man—not the thermometer,
which is still perfectly visible, but the mercury, which curls
up into the bulb like a hibernating bear; you should also see
the lad who "does chores" for us, with his red stockings and
his thirteen year old face, and his highly manly tramp into
the room; and his two alternative answers to all questions
about the weather; either "Cold," or with a really lyrical
movement of the voice, "_Lovely_—raining!"
Will you take this miserable scrap for what it is worth? Will
you also understand that I am the man to blame, and my wife
is really almost too much out of health to write—or at least
doesn't write?—And believe me, with kind remembrances to Mrs.
Boodle and your sister, very sincerely yours,