Monday Eve

Dear Mrs Bowles

You send sweet messages. Remembrance is more sweet than Robins in May orchards.

I love to trust that round bright fires, some, braver than me, take my pilgrim name. How are papa, mama, and the little people?

Traditions of "Memes" eyes, and little Sallie's virtues, and Sam's handsome face, are handed down.

It storms in Amherst five days - it snows, and then it rains, and then soft fogs like vails hang on all the houses, and then the days turn Topaz, like a lady's pin.

Thank you for bright boquet, and afterward Verbena. I made a plant of a little bough of yellow Heliotrope which the boquet bore me, and call it "Mary Bowles." It is many days since the summer day when you came with Mr Bowles, and before another summer day it will be many days. My garden is a little knoll with faces under it, and only the pines sing tunes, now the birds are absent. I cannot walk to the distant friends on nights piercing as these, so I put both hands on the window-pane, and try to think how birds fly, and imitate, and fail, like Mr "Rasselas." I could make a balloon of a Dandelion, but the fields are gone, and only "Prof Lowe" remains to weep with me. If I built my house I should like to call you. I talk of all these things with Carlo, and his eyes grow meaning, and his shaggy feet keep a slower pace. Are you safe tonight? I hope you may be glad. I ask God on my knee to send you much prosperity, few winter days, and long suns. I have a childish hope to gather all I love together - and sit down beside, and smile.

Austin and Sue went to Boston Saturday, which makes the Village very large.

I find they are my crowd. Will you come to Amherst? The streets are very cold now, but we will make you warm. But if you never came, perhaps you could write a letter, saying how much you would like to, if it were "God's will." I give Goodnight, and daily love to you and Mr Bowles.

                                                                                                           Emilie.