
I am sitting here in my bark-covered study this bright sharp day, writing you this
note. I look from the open fire that burns in the chimney, & the wood of which I
cut & hauled up the hill myself, out of the window on to the river just covered
with new ice, on off over the brown gray landscape. I am feeling well, better than
one year ago
this time, my summers work I think has put something into me I much needed. I am
still busy nearly every day in the open air. There is no snow & the ground for the
past few days has been like iron. As soon as the snow comes we shall probably go to
Po'Keepsie to board a while. Julian says he rather stay here, & he likes the
country, & likes the school here. He learns well & begins to read books on
his own hook. The other
day at the close of the term of school he read his first composition in public. It
was a real piece.
It was about "Papas Dogs" & gave much amusement. He spoke a couple of pieces
also, & easily carried off the honors. He is now reading "Tom Brown at Rugby." I
trust, dear Walt, you are better than when you wrote a couple of weeks ago, &
that you will have a fairly good Christmas. If you are not in the mood to write me
yourself ask Horace Trauble to drop me a
card. Nothing notable comes to or happens to me. I read a
little, write none at all, go nowhere, & try to make the most of the prose of life. If I could
only continue my farm work or else hibernate like a woodchuck
I should be glad. If you have any
late news from O'Connor please let me have it. With much love
& a merry Christmas to you I am