PARIS, December 31, 1915.
[DEAREST ONE:]
The old year, the dear, old year that brought us Hope, is
very near the end. I am not going to watch him go. I have
drunk to the New Year and to my wife and daughter, and before
there is "a new step on the floor, and a new face at the
door," I will be asleep. Of all my many years, the old year,
that is so soon to pass away, has been the best, for it has
brought you to me with a closer tie, has added to the love I
have for every breath you breathe, for your laugh and your
smile, and deep concern, that comes if you think your
worthless husband is worried, or cross, or dismayed. Each
year I love you more; for I know you more, and to know more of
the lovely soul you are, is to love more. Just now we are in
a hard place. I am sure you cannot comprehend how her father,
her "Dad" and your husband can keep away. Neither do I
understand.
But, for both your sakes, I want, before I own up that this
adventure has been a failure, to try and pull something out of
the wreck. If the government says I
can, then I still may
be able to do something. If it says,
"no," then it's
Home,
boys, Home, and that's where I want to be. It's home, boys,
home, in the old countree. 'Neath the ash, and the oak, and
the spreading maple tree, it's home, boys, home, to mine own
countree! This is Hope and you. So know, that in getting to
you I have not thrown away a minute. I have been a
slave-driver, to others as well as to myself. But you cannot
get favors with a whip; and, the French war office has other
matters to occupy it, that it considers of more importance
than an impatient war correspondent. So long as you
understand, it will not matter. Nothing hurts, except that
you may not understand. The moment I see you, and you see me,
you will understand. So, goodnight, and God bless you, you,
my two blessings. Here is to our own year of 1915, your year
and Hope's year, and, because I have you both, my year. I
send you all the love in all the world.
RICHARD.
