And poor Mrs. Semple believes that people who go fishing on Sundays, go afterwards to a sizzling hot hell! She is awfully troubled to think that she did n’t train him better when he was small and helpless and she had the chance. Besides—she wished to show him off in church.
Anyway, we had our fishing (he caught four little ones) and we cooked them on a camp-fire for lunch. They kept falling off our spiked sticks into the fire, so they tasted a little ashy, but we ate them. We got home at four and went driving at five and had dinner at seven, and at ten I was sent to bed—and here I am, writing to you.
I am getting a little sleepy though.
Good night.
Here is a picture of the one fish I caught.
Ship ahoy, Cap’n Long-Legs!
Avast! Belay! Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum. Guess what I ’m reading? Our conversation these past two days has been nautical and piratical. Is n’t “Treasure Island” fun? Did you ever read it, or was n’t it written when you were a boy? Stevenson only got thirty pounds for the serial rights—I don’t believe it pays to be a great author. Maybe I ’ll teach school.
Excuse me for filling my letters so full of Stevenson; my mind is very much engaged with him at present. He comprises Lock Willow’s library.