DEAR BETTY,--I forgot to tell you that mother's garden has been
arranged. She is quite happy in it. Father presided over a man as he
uprooted and planted. The man was quite an original. He came looking
very nice, very gentlemanly, in broadcloth and cambric cravat. But
after disappearing into the barn for several minutes, he came forth
transformed into a dirty workman, though still somewhat distinguished
by his figure and air. He expressed himself in very courtly phrase,
also, and was quite sentimental about the shrubbery round the tombs.
[A graveyard was close to the house.] I should much like to know the
history of his mind and career. . . . The clematis which climbs into
my window is all sprouting. My glorious tree--my hieroglyphic for the
everlasting forests--is also putting forth leaves, and the robins sing
among the branches.
Ellen Barstow came with an exquisite crimson rose, for me, which she
wished to present herself; and as I was lying down, she went away to
come again. So towards tea-time I saw her and Augusta running along.
Ellen discovered me at the window, and shouted and flew on. As they
were ascending the stairs I heard Ellen say, "Now hold your hand
behind you, Augusta!" They entered with hands concealed and gleaming
faces, and when they were within reach suddenly the concealed hands
were thrust towards my face, each adorned with a crimson rose. My
exclamation of delight seemed to fulfill their desires; and now I want
to know if it is not worth fifteen years of bodily pain and discomfort
to be the cause of such divine sentiment in the souls of so many
children as I am? I feel perfectly consecrated by it, and bound over
to be worthy of such pure emotions.
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