It was the broad
caricature of elegant manners. How funny things are! I can hear you
say, "Natur' is cur'ous."--I looked in upon Edith Emerson's party, and
she had a large table spread with flowers, cake, and sugar-plums,
beneath the trees, and a dozen children were running and laughing
round a "pretty Poll," who scolded at them all. Mrs. Emerson was
flitting like the spirit of a Lady Abbess in and out, in winged lace
headdress and black silk. Your letter was a bomb of joy to me last
evening.--I have taken heaps of your clothes to mend. What a rag-fair
your closet was--and you did not tell me! Mrs. Alcott brought me some
beer made of spruce only, and it was nice. Thou shalt have thy own
beer, when you come home.--Bab went to see Mrs. Alcott, and I resumed
weeding. At seven I heard thirteen cannon-shots, and did not
understand it. Then I possessed The Wayside all alone till near eight
of the evening. Not a sound but birds' last notes was to be heard. It
was strange and sweet. I thought of you in a sea-breeze with felicity.
At about eight I heard little feet racing along the Larch Path, and
Baby came to view. She read aloud to me some of your "Virtuoso's
Collection," and then to bed, celestial.--A letter came from Mr.
Bennoch. He wails like Jeremiah over our war, and longs for a letter
from you. He sends cartes de visite of himself and his wife. He looks
uncommonly dumpy, with a pair of winged whiskers of astounding effect,
and the expression of his face is blandly seraphic.
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