[April, 1867.]
[Beginning of letter missing.]
I have been groping among the flowers a good deal lately. Our trees are now in leaf, but the leaves, as Mrs. Browning would say, are “scarce long enough for waving.” The dear little conservative spring mosses have elevated their capsules on their smooth shining shafts, and stand side by side in full stature, and full fashion, every ornament and covering carefully numbered and painted and sculptured as were those of their Adams and Eves, every cowl properly plaited, and drawn far enough down, every hood with the proper dainty slant, their fashions never changing because ever best.
Tell Allie that I would be very glad to have him send me an Anemone nemorosa [?] and A. Nuttalliana. They do not grow here. I wish he and Henry could visit me on Saturdays as they used to do.
The poor eye is much better. I could read a letter with it. I believe that sight is increasing. I have nearly an eye and a half left.
I feel, if possible, more anxious to travel than ever.
I read a description of the Yosemite Valley last year and thought of it most every day since. You know my tastes better than any one else. I am, most gratefully,
John Muir.
Indianapolis, May 2nd, 1867.
I am sorry and surprised to hear of the cruel fate of your plants.