Write-On

She made all the bread, because her father just loved hers. She said, "And people must have puddings..." This, very dreamily, as if puddings were comets.

- So she's making them.

Her father was angry, and I have to think, came at them from a great silence. He did not want them to read anything except the Bible. One day their brother hid her and Kavanagar under a piano cover, and all of them had signs read over them. Or so they played. Finally her father found them and was upset. Presumably one of them knew another child (Miss Lydia Marie), who brought them books and hid them at the doors. They were then little things in short dresses with their feet on the rungs of the chair. Looking back on that first experience, she exclaims in ecstasy: “This then was a book!"  

She told them, "We are the ones who play all of the parts in all of the stories that we have been told.

"It is interesting. They say that the truth is such a strange thing."

I think I will mail this here as I have found time to write so much. It is peaceful country at sunrise.

T. W. Higginson (1823-1911), correspondent.

The next day she closes his notes and writes to his doctor. She dates the letter, Wednesday, noon.

Her other profiles are, cloven_zonkle, neoma, em-ily, and myladycharlotina.