Dear Friends,
I write to you. I receive no letter.
I say "they dignify my trust." I do not disbelieve. I go again. Cardinals wouldn't do it. co*kneys wouldn't do it, but I can't stop to strut, in a world where bells toll. I hear through visitor in town, that "Mrs. Holland is not strong." The little peaco*k in me, tells me not to inquire again. Then I remember my tiny friend - how brief she is - how dear she is, and the peaco*k quite dies away. Now, you need not speak, for perhaps you are weary, and "Herod" requires all your thought, but if you are well - let Annie draw me a little picture of an erect flower; if you are ill, she can hang the flower a little on one side!
Then, I shall understand, and you need not stop to write me a letter. Perhaps you laugh at me! Perhaps the whole United States are laughing at me too! I can't stop for that! My business is to love. I found a bird, this morning, down - down - on a little bush at the foot of the garden, and wherefore sing, I said, since nobody hears?
One sob in the throat, one flutter of bosom - "My business is to sing" - and away she rose! How do I know but cherubim, once, themselves, as patient, listened, and applauded her unnoticed hymn?
Emily.