October 24.
[MY DEAR DAUGHTER:]
So many weeks have passed since I saw you that by now you
are able to read this without your mother looking over your
shoulder and helping you with the big words. I have six sets
of pictures of you. Every day I take them down and change
them. Those your dear mother put in glass frames I do not
change. Also, I have all the sweet fruits and chocolates and
red bananas. How good of you to think of just the things your
father likes. Some of them I gave to a little boy and girl.
I play with them because soon my daughter will be as big.
They have no mother like you, of course; they have no
mother
like yours — for
except my mother there never was a mother like yours; so
loving, so tender, so unselfish and thoughtful. If she is
reading this, kiss her for me. These little children have a
little father. He dresses them and bathes them himself. He
is afraid of the cold; and sits in the sun; and coughs and
shivers. His children and I play hide-and-seek, and, as you
will know some day, for that game there is no such place as a
steamer, with boats and ventilators and masts and alleyways.
Some day we will play that game hiding behind the rocks and
trees and rose bushes. Every day I watch the sun set, and
know that you and your pretty mother are watching it, too.
And all day I think of you both.
Be very good. Do not bump yourself. Do not eat matches.
Do not play with scissors or cats. Do not forget your dad.
Sleep when your mother wishes it. Love us both. Try to know
how we love you. That you will never learn. Good-night
and
God keep you, and bless you.
YOUR DAD.
