
I received your letter, & the papers you so kindly
sent me, both very welcome. The sight of the Washington papers forthwith induces a
fit of homesickness on poor 'Suly who seems to pine for the
place & our old home there more than I do. I have got somewhat wonted here,
& then I am busy & have many things to interest me, & she has little or
nothing. Then the home in W. was of course more to her than to me; her time was all passed there &
only a part of mine. Still at times my thoughts will go back
& hover & nestle about the little home & the many familiar places. I
expect it will be a good while before Either of us are weaned from W. I am about to sell the place. The bargain can be closed whenever I come on
which will be by Sunday I think. Then we will be quite homeless again & I expect
the wife will be unhappy enough. I hope to be in W. on Sunday evening, or Monday morning. I was grieved dear Walt that you was
still confined to W. & not able to go home; but your faith in your ultimate entire recovery
is cheering. I hope it may be more speedy. I look
forward to many delightful days with you yet, after I have built me another nest up
here by the Hudson You will come and spend weeks & months with us & we will
all be happy again.
The
spring is backward here; no lilacs yet & no signs of any. But the grass, the
good green grass, is wonderful. It seems as if I never saw it so perfect before.
This you know is a great grazing & butter country,
& the fields & the spread
of farms around are delightful to behold. They have something of the smooth, mellow,
well kept look of the English fields, while their freshness & tenderness are
marvelous. I graze in them with my eyes daily.
Grass like this is never seen so far south on the Potomac. Yesterday I made a trip
to Sugar loaf Mountain 15 miles below here, & could see
over nearly the whole county from its summit, & could see the Catskills 50
miles to the North, & peaks that I recognized as visible from my parents parents'
home in Delaware Co .
But the rolling succession of green fields was the most wonderful.
I have plenty of time on my hands now, but do not seem able to turn it to any account
in a literary way. I am like a cow that has lost her "cud." I can't get back my
ruminating habit.
If I could only
begin once more I think there are several pieces I could write. I have seen my father
make an artificial cud for a cow, but I know of no receipt by which I can compound
an intellectual one for myself.
The first of my bird pieces with Scribner will not be out till
July; when "The Birds of the Poets" will be out I have not heard.
I take the "Tribune" so had seen the letter about Emerson. I am glad the old fellow is having a good time. Conway is no doubt happy.
Wife sends much love. Hoping to see you in a few days I am
Ever Your Friend John Burroughs