MARION,
MASSACHUSETTS. May, 1901.
We arrived here last night in a glowing sunset which was
followed by a grand moon. The house was warm and clean and
bright, with red curtains and open fires and everything was
just as we had left it, so that it seemed as though we had
just come out of a tortuous bad dream of asphalt and L. roads
and bad air. I was never so glad to get away from New York.
Outside it is brisk and fine and smells of earth and
melting snow and there is a grand breeze from the bay. We
took a long walk to-day, with the three dogs, and it
was pitiful to see how glad they were to be free of the cellar
and a back yard and at large among grass and rocks and roots
of trees. I wanted to bottle up some of the air and send it
to all of my friends in New York. It is so much better to
smell than hot-house violets. Seaton came on with us to
handle the dogs and to unpack and so to-day we are nearly
settled already with silver, pictures, clothes and easels and
writing things all in place. The gramophone is whirling madly
and all is well — Lots and lots of love.
DICK.
The following was written by Richard to his mother on her
birthday:
