My head is in the dust! Such an uncomfortable place for it, too! Reluctantly, I have forwarded to my mother the letter which should have been mine. I have read it, every word! Surely that snippy little note, in which you call me—me, a perfect stranger—names! cannot be considered a real letter! On second thoughts, the wildest flight of fancy could never claim that your enclosure was intended for me. However, if I cannot knit, I can write poems for you. There are some on my desk now. But I will not send them to you yet. They are very shy.
How is Peter?
Yours despondently,
Richard Warren
P.S. What little feet you have!
Under-the-Trees
August 22d
Do I not write you from an incredible address, my friend? Yesterday, the Event took place. It was my Red Letter Day, illuminated with gold. Early in the afternoon, I was carried out of the house, with comparatively little discomfort, on a most ingenious stretcher, by Father and the Very Young Doctor. My dear old Medicine Man was erect in the vanguard, sternly repressing his excitement; while Sarah, visibly jarred out of her usual self, brought up the rear in a flutter of apron strings and ejaculated warnings. We must have made an imposing procession. As long as I live—and I am beginning to hope that it will be for half a century or more—I shall never forget my first sense, after eleven years, of being out in the open. Oh, I've had my windows wide to the four winds, of course, and sunlight across my counterpane and pillows. But how could that be the same? I would have written you, but only one hour of Freedom was granted me. The Family and the Medical Profession had rigged and ready for me, between the two biggest, most friendly trees on the lawn, a comfy and substantial hammock, cushion-flanked. And so, for that hour, I lay and looked and looked, over the hills and across the valleys, and right into our own garden, which riots in bloom these August days. I must confess that the disagreeable and youthful doctor is an understanding person. After the first fifteen minutes had passed in handshaking and congratulations and solicitude, he marshalled my companions and led them away, leaving me alone, in that heavenly air, with the green trees singing all about me. I shall always feel more kindly toward him for that strategic move. But however did the Creature know that even dear Father was a little superfluous?
Will you tell your little Mother of my good fortune? I know you both will be glad for me, but I can't believe anyone can quite grasp my happiness, and my gratitude. Except perhaps, a life prisoner who goes, unexpectedly, free....
By the way, I had hardly been reluctantly settled in the house again, before Father rushed out and wired that amiable go-between, our mutual friend John Denton. He is back in New York again, as no doubt you know, and a return message came from him today, announcing that he will be with us in person on Friday, in order to "celebrate and to see the miracle with his own eyes." Isn't that nice? And won't your ears burn, distant Poet!
This is Monday. Sky-blue Monday. By Friday, perhaps, I may be allowed to spend the whole afternoon in my Green Playground.
Your friend, and so happily,