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.