some of
this lovely, breezy, sunshiny outlook. The country is Heaven after a
week of rain.

Speaking of Heaven--do you remember Mr. Kellogg that I told you about
last summer?--the minister of the little white church at the Corners.
Well, the poor old soul is dead--last winter of pneumonia. I went half
a dozen times to hear him preach and got very well acquainted with his
theology. He believed to the end exactly the same things he started
with. It seems to me that a man who can think straight along for
forty-seven years without changing a single idea ought to be kept in a
cabinet as a curiosity. I hope he is enjoying his harp and golden
crown; he was so perfectly sure of finding them! There's a new young
man, very consequential, in his place. The congregation is pretty
dubious, especially the faction led by Deacon Cummings. It looks as
though there was going to be an awful split in the church. We don't
care for innovations in religion in this neighbourhood.

During our week of rain I sat up in the attic and had an orgy of
reading--Stevenson, mostly. He himself is more entertaining than any
of the characters in his books; I dare say he made himself into the
kind of hero that would look well in print. Don't you think it was
perfect of him to spend all the ten thousand dollars his father left,
for a yacht, and go sailing off to the South Seas? He lived up to his
adventurous creed. If my father had left me ten thousand dollars, I'd
do it, too. The thought of Vailima makes me wild. I want to see the
tropics. I want to see the whole world. I am going to be a great
author, or artist, or actress, or playwright--or whatever sort of a
great person I turn out to be. I have a terrible wanderthirst; the
very sight of a map makes me want to put on my hat and take an umbrella
and start. 'I shall see before I die the palms and temples of the
South.'

Thursday evening at twilight,
sitting on the doorstep.

Very hard to get any news into this letter! Judy is becoming so
philosophical of late, that she wishes to discourse largely of the
world in general, instead of descending to the trivial details of daily
life. But if you MUST have news, here it is:

Our nine young pigs waded across the brook and ran away last Tuesday,
and only eight came back. We don't want to accuse anyone unjustly, but
we suspect that Widow Dowd has one more than she ought t