"Who is Sylvia? What is she
That all the swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she,
The heavens such grace did lend her
That she might admired be."
I advise you to invest in doublet, hose, plumed hat, and guitar, and try the effect of a serenade under our Sylvia's—beg pardon, your Sylvia's window. The fellow in the play made a great hit, so there's no telling what you might accomplish.
I hated leaving the Littles', for the good time I had there sure beat the good time I had on shipboard "to a frazzle"; but I soon found out that the business part of the trip was going to be a good deal more interesting and absorbing than I had imagined it would be. My interpreter, Hans Roorda, a fellow several years younger than I am, can speak five languages, all equally well, and I kept him busy talking French to me. We were in the country almost three weeks. The farmers haven't half the mechanical conveniences that we considered absolutely necessary even in our least prosperous days, but are marvels of order and efficiency, for all that. I believe one of the greatest mistakes that we New England farmers have been making is to assume that farming is a mixture of three fourths muscle and one fourth brains—I'm beginning to think it's the other way around. As you have already learned, I followed Jenkins's advice, bought a dozen head of fine cattle, and hired Peter Kuyp, the son of one of the farmers I visited, to take care of them. Of course, this meant going back to Rotterdam to see them safely off, and I managed to get a glimpse of some of the other Dutch cities as well. When I got to Amsterdam I parted from Roorda with real regret, for I feel he's one of the many good friends I've already made. I found my first American mail in Amsterdam, among other letters one from you. The news from home in it was all fine. I'm glad father has sold that old Blue Hill pasture. It was too far off from the rest of our land to be of much real use to us, and I also think he was dead right to use the money he got from it to pay off old debts. Mr. Stevens writes me that he has sold Sylvia's Long Island house for her, and that her horses, carriages, sleighs, and motor are all going up to the Homestead. Now that the Holsteins are there, too, why don't you sell the few old cows and the two horses that we rescued from the fire, and use that money in paying off more debts? If the mortgage were only out of the way, with all the other improvements you speak of well started, I should think we were headed straight for millionaires' row.
I also found a letter from Mr. Little in Amsterdam, saying that Mrs. Little and Flora were about to start for Paris, and asking if I would care to act as their escort, since neither he nor his son could leave The Hague just then—simply a kind way of saying, "Here's another chance for you," of course! You can imagine the answer I telegraphed him! We "broke" the journey in Brussels and Antwerp, and I saw no end of new wonders, of course, and in Brussels we went to the opera. I did wish Molly was there, for she certainly would have thought she had struck Heaven, and I did, pretty nearly! I'm getting used to my dress-suit, and it isn't quite such an exquisite piece of torture to "do" my tie as it was at first, since Flora did it for me one night, and gave me some little hints for the future. She is really an awfully jolly girl.
We got to Paris late at night, and I never shall forget the long drive from the station, through the bright streets to the Fessendens' house, where the Littles were going to visit. Sylvia had given me a letter of introduction to them, too, but I didn't need to use it, for, of course, I got introduced to them then and there. There are three fellows—no girls—in the family, besides Mr. and Mrs. I knew beforehand that Flora was engaged to one of them, but I couldn't tell which, for they all fell upon her and embraced her with about equal enthusiasm. Then they all kissed Mrs. Little, and Mrs. Little and Mrs. Fessenden hugged each other, and Mr. Fessenden hugged Flora. I began to think that perhaps I might be included—by mistake—but all my hopes were in vain. I was invited to come to dinner the next night, however, and then I took my leave, and drove round for an hour—it seemed like an hour in Fairyland—before I went back to my hotel.
You must be getting settled in college now—it must have been an awful wrench to tear yourself away from the Homestead, I know, but you'll have a great time after you get over the first pangs of separation, I'm sure, and don't forget that "absence makes the heart grow fonder." I refer, of course, to Sylvia's heart because you've made it sufficiently plain to all of us that yours can't. Well, the best of luck go with you.
AUSTIN
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Southampton,
October 27