Monday.
[DEAREST ONE:]
I got such a beautiful letter from you! With pictures
of Hope playing with the Bunny. It is the best picture yet.
I carry it next to my heart because you made it, because it is
of her. And she sits up now? Well, I will miss the big
clothes-basket. I loved to see her in it. Years ago, when I
left home, she was trying to crawl out of it. What you tell
me of her — knowing what you mean when you say "Kitty" and
"Bunny" — is wonderful. How good it will be! You must come
close under my arm, and tell me every little thing. I feel so
much better now that we have broken into the last week, and
are on the home stretch. We have broken the backbone of the
long absence, and,
the first thing you know, I'll be telephoning to have you meet
me at White Plains.
This is me sewing up a hole in my breeches. The socks
are drying on the line, my rubber bath is on the right. I am
now going to Canada. But I'll be back in half an hour; it's
only 200 yards distant. All the folks here are French, and
the signs are in French. Last place we halted I bought
lumberman's socks to wear at night. I sleep very well, for I
buy my raincoat full of hay from the nearest farmer, and sleep
on that. Today we had another "battle." It began at 7.30
and ended at one o'clock. We were kept going all that time,
taking "cover" behind railroad embankments and stone walls and
in plowed fields, finally ending with a bayonet charge. I
killed so many I stopped counting.
Don't let Hope forget her father. Better put on a
wrist-watch and my horn spectacles, and hold her the wrong
way, so she will be reminded of her Dad.
Good-night, my dearest one. You will never know how
terribly I miss you and love you, and want you in my arms, and
you holding Hope so that I can have all my happiness in one
big armful of all that is good.
YOUR LOVING HUSBAND.
