dearest daddy-long-legs,
isn't it fun to work--or don't you ever do it? it's especially
fun when your kind of work is the thing you'd rather do more than
anything else in the world. i've been writing as fast as my pen
would go every day this summer, and my only quarrel with life
is that the days aren't long enough to write all the beautiful
and valuable and entertaining thoughts i'm thinking.
i've finished the second draft of my book and am going to begin
the third tomorrow morning at half-past seven. it's the sweetest
book you ever saw--it is, truly. i think of nothing else.
i can barely wait in the morning to dress and eat before beginning;
then i write and write and write till suddenly i'm so tired that i'm
limp all over. then i go out with colin (the new sheep dog) and romp
through the fields and get a fresh supply of ideas for the next day.
it's the most beautiful book you ever saw--oh, pardon--i said
that before.
you don't think me conceited, do you, daddy dear?
i'm not, really, only just now i'm in the enthusiastic stage.
maybe later on i'll get cold and critical and sniffy. no, i'm sure
i won't! this time i've written a real book. just wait till you
see it.
i'll try for a minute to talk about something else. i never told you,
did i, that amasai and carrie got married last may? they are still
working here, but so far as i can see it has spoiled them both.
she used to laugh when he tramped in mud or dropped ashes on the floor,
but now--you should hear her scold! and she doesn't curl her hair
any longer. amasai, who used to be so obliging about beating
rugs and carrying wood, grumbles if you suggest such a thing.
also his neckties are quite dingy--black and brown, where they
used to be scarlet and purple. i've determined never to marry.
it's a deteriorating process, evidently.
there isn't much of any farm news. the animals are all in the best
of health. the pigs are unusually fat, the cows seem contented
and the hens are laying well. are you interested in poultry?
if so, let me recommend that invaluable little work, 200 eggs per
hen per year. i am thinking of starting an incubator next spring
and raising broilers. you see i'm settled at lock willow permanently.
i have decided to stay until i've written 114 novels like anthony
trollope's mother. then i shall have completed my life work and can
retire and travel.
mr. james mcbride spent last sunday with us. fried chicken and ice-cream
for dinner, both of which he appeared to appreciate. i was awfully
glad to see him; he brought a momentary reminder that the world at
large exists. poor jimmie is having a hard time peddling his bonds.
the `farmers' national' at the corners wouldn't have anything
to do with them in spite of the fact that they pay six per cent.
interest and sometimes seven. i think he'll end up by going home
to worcester and taking a job in his father's factory. he's too open
and confiding and kind-hearted ever to make a successful financier.
but to be the manager of a flourishing overall factory is a very
desirable position, don't you think? just now he turns up his nose
at overalls, but he'll come to them.
i hope you appreciate the fact that this is a long letter from
a person with writer's cramp. but i still love you, daddy dear,
and i'm very happy. with beautiful scenery all about, and lots
to eat and a comfortable four-post bed and a ream of blank paper
and a pint of ink--what more does one want in the world?
yours as always,
judy
ps. the postman arrives with some more news. we are to expect
master jervie on friday next to spend a week. that's a very
pleasant prospect--only i am afraid my poor book will suffer.
master jervie is very demanding.
