This letter is, as Joe admits at the end, profuse. It is a fun read and really gives insight into the playfulness of their changing relationship.
May 8, 1916.
My dear Helen:
I presume that I
ought to write to-day to make up for the time wasted(?)Playing the national past
time yesterday.
Possibly that
is presumptuous, but
as the fellow said
to the girl
about to recite her
'pome’ go ahead and let
your conscience be your
guide.
The rising sun at
six this morning saw me wearily “grag” myself out of bed, but trains, like time
and tide, follow one curriculum-whatever that is. And as seven approached and I
was ready to start for the depot, the phone jingled. What do you suppose it
was? Good old thoughtful brother, who was visiting the folks last night, and
having left late, and I not back then, assumed that I would be tired or sleepy,
or what not, and called me up to say that he was sending his 'showfur' over
with the car to take me to Shelton. The car was to come at eight, so that
gave me a chance to go out and look over the country.
In a maple tree back
of the house, planted about three years ago (now about 30 feet high) with all
the buds open and the young leaves spreading their faces heavenward - gee what
talk -I spied a nest. The big kid of course climbed up, and what do you think?
The nicest, fattest, sleekest looking robin red breast sitting comfortably on
two of the palest little blue eggs that you could want to see. I must have
looked harmless. For she didn't stir at all; yes she did, she kind of lifted
her wing to proudly show the eggs, with a look in her eye as if to say "can you
beat that?" I almost was tempted to take her at her threat, and was about to
bring up the three little kittens as a sample, but discretion was the better part
of valor, and
I didn't want to teach the young 'uns to follow the chickens so soon. When I climbed down, the old bird up
and flew away, perhaps
to do marketing for breakfast, perhaps to put some gas in her engine, who knows? Or
mayhap to call another bird to witness the bold intruder into the lady's
apartment in the tree.
However, my fondness for
cats did not prevent my telling my mother that if she
wanted to remain proud of her quasi-angora-mock-tiger-oat, and to spare for the
benefit of her three young ones (we gave one away) the
existence
of the
mamma cat, that she should keep
just one eye peeled for Mrs. Kat when she was exercising her
climbing propensities in the vicinity of that maple tree.
And the lilacs are
in bloom. The bull
frogs are serenading. And as poor Elbert Hubbard - whose
death's anniversary we celebrated
yesterday-concluded many a story of his, “and
in the distance you could hear a cuckoo plaintively
calling for its mate”.
Talking about
mates reminds me that I have an invitation to go to Moosehead Lake in Maine during any of
the next four weeks, for
our Chief of Police is up there with his
boat a-fishing. "Lead us
not into temptation? I suppose he might let me be the first mate. And up there
in the woods deer mate is very good broiled.
My sister actually
sprung a joke to-day, good for her.
She said that I seemed to have a restless night that
there was a lot of noise out in front of the house
all night. I asked what it was, and
she replied perhaps the 'dandylines! She'd
better look out, for she's up at
sun-rise every morning, some mornings.
I believe in
preparedness. Asked Freddie or Moshe. So I am writing a rather profuse letter, realizing
that tomorrow, I’ll be in Court and
in the evening start for Hartford where I’ll spend Wednesday, and
return late that night, and Thursday will
try but may not get a chance to tell some more nature stories. But
remember that this bird positively did not have whiskers,
could not bark, had but two legs, and
couldn't understand French even as you and I.
The sky is a
beautiful blue just now. Hoping you are not the same, I
am
Sincerely
Joe
The link connected to Elbert Hubbard goes to the article from May 7, 1915 when the Lusitania sank.
The next letter will be May 12.
