I’d rather be deaf, Master Jack,
For if only one sense I must lack,
To be rid of your voice
I should always rejoice,
Nor mourn if it never came back!
And now good-night and good-bye until I am allowed to write you my own particular kind of letter.
The girls and boys are singing round the camp-fire, and I must go out and join them in one song before we go to bed.
Yours with love, now and always,
Bell.
P.S.—Our “Happy Hexagon” has become a sort of “Obstreperous Octagon.” Laura and Scott Burton are staying with us. Scott is a good deal of a bookworm, and uses very long words; his favourite name for me at present is Calliope; I thought it was a sort of steam-whistle, but Margery thinks it was some one who was connected with poetry. We don’t dare ask the boys; will you find out?
VI.
Camp Chaparral, July 13, 188–.
Studio Raphael.
Dear Little Sis,—The enclosed sketches speak for themselves, or at least I hope they do. Keep them in your private portfolio, and when I am famous you can produce them to show the public at what an early age my genius began to sprout.
At first I thought I’d make them real “William Henry” pictures, but concluded to give you a variety.
Can’t stop to write another line; and if you missed your regular letter this week you must not growl, for the sketches took an awful lot of time, and I’m just rushed to death here anyway.