One of my most intimate friends, Marguerite Aymar, after having visited several watering-places, and contributed sparkling letters to different New York journals this summer, has now come to Westchester County to pass away quietly the remainder of the season, and gather up strength for her literary labors during the coming winter. I learn by a letter received from her yesterday, that she is boarding within driving distance of Chappaqua—a very agreeable prospect for me, for Marguerite and I are much given to long talks together, and are very fond of an exchange of ideas over our many literary plans.
Miss Aymar is a clever young writer, by no means confining herself to the graceful poems, stories, and sketches that she dashes off with such ease, but evincing talent and tact in her more thoughtful magazine articles. She is now, she tells me, at work upon a novel.
September 13.
Our home circle is once more complete, for Mrs. Lamson, who left us some weeks ago to visit friends in Connecticut, has now returned to remain with us until we go down to the city.
Mrs. Lamson was one of dear uncle's earliest friends, their acquaintance dating back indeed to the days of Poultney—and we are all deeply attached to her.
September 15.
Arthur's name, I believe, has not yet been mentioned in my journal since he left us early in August. He is a very tormenting correspondent, for he never writes with the promptitude that would be agreeable, but his letters when they do come are always entertaining, and one that arrived this morning, detailing his adventures since his departure from Chappaqua, we found especially so. Before making some extracts from it, I must explain that he left us to join a number of young men from Chappaqua, headed by our neighbor, Mr. Carpenter, who were to camp out at Rye Beach, and indulge in unlimited fishing parties. This out-of-doors life delighted Arthur, accustomed as he had been to foot journeys in Europe, and when the party broke up he bought a waterproof suit, hired a boat and a tent, and rowed up the Sound to Boston, where he lives, sleeping meantime on land or in his boat, as best suited his caprice. I will now give his exploits in his own words.
"I remained on the beach some time after Mr. Carpenter and the others left, caught and made food of many fishes, and came near making myself food for them, for in hauling up anchor in a rough sea I tipped out of the boat, but luckily saved myself by clutching its side, and lifting myself in at imminent risk of turning the whole concern bottom upwards.
"Being wrapped in slumber on the rocks one night with a big fire burning beside me, my bed of dry seaweed caught fire, and woke me by its fierce breath; but escaping an evil fate for the present, I came safely home to Boston, which I felt keen joy to see once more.
"I have gone into the office of a lawyer here, and am engaged in the delightful occupation of 'sooing folks' (as the old fellow pronounces it). You may imagine me seated on the extreme top of a high stool, forging like a young Cyclops with malignant pleasure, the writs and summonses which are presently to be flourished by the Sheriff in the face of the astonished Defendant."