In October came the first letter from Peanut:
Der Rose,—The house-es are hi
as hils and thair is nois al the tim.
Yurs,
P. Nutt.
The writing was very round and plain. It seemed marvelous to the Rose that he could do it already. He would reach the higher life sooner than she had thought. She would leave out her “between” toddies to-morrow.
A week later brought still another letter. Already there was improvement.
Dear Rose,—Thare are no hills
here. I luk at my pic-cher of Sams
grav ev-ry day. I am lern-ing fig-grin,