is 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