"Ma undertook to manage the bees, and has had a glass hive fixed at her bed-room window. The first night she was very unlucky; for, getting up in the dark to open the window, she forgot the bees, and smashed one of the hives, whereupon the little savages flew at her and almost stung her to death; and pa, who heard her cries and jumped out of bed to her assistance, got as roughly handled as ma. Only fancy, Julia dear, being in nothing but your chemise, and two hundred thousand bees stinging at you like mad! not pleasant, is it?
"Our pig-sties, I am sorry to say, are quite empty, the pigs having strayed and got into the parish pound (unknown to us, of course), where they were at last sold to pay their expenses. Susan, however, has been very successful in rearing a litter of Guinea pigs, and Emily has got a most delightful lot of little peacocks. Also John, who has bought a hunter and means to follow the hounds, has had wonderful luck with his foxes, for whose accommodation he has planted two of our largest fields full of gorse bushes. A singular thing occurred the other day with regard to one of these creatures: he was seen retreating to the gorse covert, closely pursued by one of the turkeys; and, more singular still, the turkey has never since been heard of, and it is generally supposed that it followed the fox into one of its holes and got suffocated. Several of the chickens have also disappeared in a very mysterious way, and we can only account for it in the same manner.
"Our health is capital—except ma, who has got the lumbago by sitting without her shawl in the hay-field—and pa, who is laid up with a cold and sore throat from standing in the draught of a winnowing machine—and Emily, who has got a face as big as two with running to fetch the young ducks out of the rain—and Abraham, who has almost cut his hand off with pruning the damson trees—and John, who, I am afraid, has lamed himself for life in trying to jump his horse over a five-barred gate with spikes on it—and your humble servant, who has put out one of her wrists, and sprained one of her ancles, and fractured one of her ribs in climbing up a tree after a hen's nest—or rather, a magpie's. My wrist is so bad at this moment that you must excuse my abruptly signing myself,
"Dearest Julia, your most affectionate
"AMELIA.
"P.S. Wrist or no wrist, I must tell you of the perfidy of that villain, Edwin Brown. Ma has just been in to say that he has run away with his father's dairymaid. A perjured wretch! and a dairymaid too! I have for-sworn love for ever, and made over my sheep to Emily. Oh, Julia!
"P.S. I open this sheet to tell you of the shocking fire that happened here last night. We might have all been burnt to death in our beds. The barns, stables, and other out-buildings are reduced to cinders; and all owing to William's fine rick of hay, which it seems was put up too green, and took fire of its own accord. Very odd—pa's book never said a word about it. We are all very miserable.
"Your doubly afflicted
"Amelia."