Dear Mr Bowles.
Vinnie is trading with a Tin peddler - buying Water pots for me to sprinkle Geraniums with - when you get Home, next Winter, and Vinnie and Sue, have gone to the War.
Summer a'nt so long as it was, when we stood looking at it, before you went away, and when I finish August, we'll hop the Autumn, very soon - and then 'twill be Yourself. I dont know how many will be glad to see you, because I never saw your whole friends, but I have heard, that in large Cities - noted persons chose you. Though how glad those I know - will be, is easier told.
I tell you, Mr Bowles, it is a Suffering, to have a sea - no care how Blue - between your Soul, and you. The Hills you used to love when you were in Northampton, miss their old lover, could they speak - and the puzzled look - deepens in Carlo's forehead, as Days go by, ad you never come.
I've learned to read the Steamer place - in Newspapers - now. It's 'most like shaking hands, with you - or more like your ringing at the door, when Sue says you will call.
We reckon - your coming by the Fruit.
When the Grape gets by - and the Pippin, and the Chestnut - when the Days are a little short by the clock - and a little long by the want - when the sky has new Red Gowns - and a Purple Bonnet - then we say, you will come - I am glad that kind of time, goes by.
It is easier to look behind at a pain, than to see it coming. A Soldier called - a Morning ago, and asked for a Nosegay, to take to Battle. I suppose he thought we kept an Aquarium.
How sweet it must be to one to come Home - whose Home is in so many Houses - and every Heart a "Best Room." I mean you, Mr Bowles.
Sue gave me the paper, to write on - so when the writing tires you - play it is Her, and "Jackey" - and that will rest your eyes - for have not the Clovers, names, to the Bees?
Emily.