We are snowed in and our two bronze boys are trying to make a path to the road. We are all so abnormally well and with the nurse and Carlton's friend Dr. Harmen, constitute a lively household though I liked the sweetness of our oneness better. These are happy times and they watch and guard me as though I were another Wilhelmina.
Was ever Christmas day so wonderful! Our tree is a real cedar of Lebanon, uprooted by our beloved Indians and decorated with their handiwork. Last eve we romped and sang and played tricks upon each other until midnight, when we saucily hung up the biggest stockings and sneaked off to bed to leave our Santa Claus with his labors. It must have taken him hours for I slept for ages when I finally heard him getting ready for bed. I slipped into my kimono and tried to crawl down stairs and take a peep, but he heard me and would not countenance any cheating so I snuggled up again and went to sleep, but like children, we were all up at daybreak. For days and days Carlton has been going on clandestine shopping tours to the meccas around us and has kept all purchases locked and guarded. He can't bear the thought of grown-ups not loving and believing in Santa.
Aside from all the valuable and exquisite things that each received, the gift that proved Carlton's feeling toward me,—if I may insult that feeling by even suggesting the necessity of a proof—was a tiny silk stocking, hung quite at the end of the mantel shelf, all alone as though it needed no protection, and filled with—you would never guess in a thousand years, so I shan't keep you suspended in mid air—fifty thousand dollars in U. S. bonds to start a bank account for the little visitor that is to come. Every night before we sleep, we talk to our baby, we pray to our baby, we worship our baby. Only beautiful thoughts come to our minds; only beautiful things come to our hands,—surely God sends babies for other reasons than to propagate the species—we are grown entirely unselfish; we are filled with kindly sympathies and affection, and our energies and aims reach to Heaven.
A beautiful pink satin baby basket came direct from Printemps, filled with the most delicate little garments that a human hand could create. Do you remember the day when we were at school in Paris, that we passed Printemp's baby shop and planned our progenys' outfits—twenty years ago? I am now fuller of the joy of living than I was then—but on the threshold of womanly emotions.
From my window I can see far down the icy canon. The mountain stream is a fluted ribbon of snow and ice, and where the spray tumbled before it froze, there are thousands of filmy rosettes iridescent in the sun's rays. The path is finished and Dr. Harmen is building a snow man. We are civilized aborigines gone mad with youth out here in the frigid zone, and anything as grown up as bridge has failed to interest us. From our home on the summit of "Kewanas Crag," Silver Lake looks like a stray turquoise below and the mysterious Black Hills around us catch glimpses of gold in the sunset hour, then dye themselves purple, take a tint of glowing rose-water, then turn dull and gray; a drama of color goes on ceaselessly; a play of ever shifting hues like those on a pigeon's breast.
Do you know of anyone who has ever died in childbirth? If you do, don't tell me, as I am beginning to be frightened. Not afraid of the agony, for I rather enjoy pondering over the sacrifice, but so fearful of leaving all of this barely tasted sweet behind me. It seems as though my impatience would consume me—I want so to know whether I may be spared for more and more days of our endless joy.
Your Christmas box came one day too soon and, like the child that I am transformed into, I resorted to tears in order to wheedle Carlton into permitting me to open it. The little things are wonderful and the discretion of your love is more so. Each little article is an expression of your faultless friendship, for losing which, not even Carlton's love could compensate me.
The new decorations in my bed room are all in bloom like our love, and I lie awake during my specified hours of rest, gathering mental roses from my wall garden. My revival is as natural as the effect of May on the meadows; of a shower on a dry plant. I awaken with the breath of my Spring, which is heavy with Oriental sweetness like a rose of Frangistan. I should not in such moments as these, feel a death blow.
All of the old mental bruises caused by knocking myself against corners, some that I myself created at times, and others that I saw but could not escape, are healed and quite forgotten in this new world of mine.
I press a goodnight kiss on your dear understanding lips.