November 24, 1912.
Dear Dr. McDonald:
How many letters do you guess I have written to you so far this month? 24. Yes, I have written you a long letter every day, telling you all the things I did, and thought, but of course I did not mail them, for I knew that you would get tired of reading them.
But this one I am going to send, for grandfather has asked me to let you know that he has shot that wild turkey bird for your Thanksgiving—which is Thursday—and has sent it to you by express package from Fayville. I was with him when he did it.
Evenings come right early now and we went into the woods just before sun down. It was right beautiful, and I wished that you could have been with us. I will try and tell you what I saw like I do in my daily letters that my teacher says are practice themes. (I could not have spelled that to save my life a month ago.)
Well, except for the big pine trees which never seem to change, just like granddaddy, all the tall forest people and the half grown-up children-bushes, had put on bright new dresses in honor of Thanksgiving time. They were red, made of many colored patches like Bible Joseph's coat,—yellow green and brown, some as bright as God could paint the colors, some soft, like they had been washed and washed.
Granddaddy thought it was beautiful too—although he called it "purty." But he did not like the brown grass and fallen pine needles, and called the marsh near the river an ugly mudflat; but I thought it was beautiful, for that oozy mud was deep purple (the reverend told me the word), and the little pools of water were all gold. Those are the colors that kings dress in, yet that old mudflat wore them, too.
Well, finally, when it began to grow dusk, we found a wild turkey bird roosting on a tree limb and granddaddy said, 'Hush, I aims ter shoot hit right thru ther head.' When you get it look where the bullet went.
Now perhaps you would like to hear about what I have been doing. Well, I have been doing many things, but most of all I have been studying.
The minister, whose name is Reverend John Talmadge, came back to our mountain when it began to get cold, for he is in not very good health and can't go about much, although he sits out doors most of the time.