April 8, 1901.
You will know from your own experience the deluges of publications which come—what can I do with them? They might be measured by feet, if not by yards. Some valuable, some ——!
Would not it be my best way to keep them all until you will, as I hope, come some day—and you could see if there are any that you would like. Besides what are of no very obvious use, there are quantities of amazingly learned entomological treatises which, in case they do not float in the way of our good friend Dr. MacDougall, he might at least like to place on his shelves. You will tell me, will you not, some time what you advise? Meanwhile, with all possible good wishes and kind regards, &c.
April 19, 1901.
I should like to give you a better account of myself, but for weeks back I could not think why I got on so slowly, with “relapses,” and it is only just lately that I have extracted out of my good doctor that the illness I had was that horrid influenza, and I am going through the weeks and weeks of “after effects”! I am not allowed to go down, but sit up a few hours in my room, and am certainly better, but I am told I must not expect to be well for a long time. One of my doctor nephews looked in yesterday, and he told me that a characteristic of some of the influenzas which have been about is that they do not seem much at the time, but they leave those detestable effects on the system.
You will believe how very pleasant (as I get stronger) I find looking up bits for “Reminiscences.” Miss Hartwell brings me books, and I can “rummage” and copy. Now I enclose you some pages, of which I think some part is right, but I did not feel as if I could put the whole paper right until I had it typewritten.
I should very much like too if you would give a thought to my “Scriptural Commentary” (page 21). I do not see how the description I object to can be right. I hope you will think the paper is hopeful. I am not up yet, therefore please excuse this stupid scrawl, and with my very kind regards and best wishes, &c.
May 2, 1901.
How I long for the day to come when I may tell you that I am well, and am going on as usual. But this disgusting, tenacious remains of influenza seems to be always coming back. I had got on to coming down on Friday last a little after 9 a.m., and was full of hope and absolutely striving to recover, but yesterday something went wrong, so I am on a treatment of milk and seltzer-water and bed, but I felt I must write you, and hope soon to send you a much better letter.
“Reminiscences” are a perfect blessing, and I enclose two portraits of my father received yesterday to show the illustrations are getting on. Is not the one of him as a little laddie of about five years old, charming? (plate [xxx].)