Everything that you tell me about him is like a fairy tale. I can shut

my eyes and see you two in that circle of young pines. I can hear your

voice ringing in the stillness. You don't tell me of yourself, but I

know this, that in that boy you've found an audience--and he is doing

things for you while you are doing them for him. You are living once

more, aren't you?

And the little sad children. I was so glad to pick out the books with

the bright pictures. Weren't the Cinderella illustrations dear? With

all the gowns as pink as they could be and the grass as green as green,

and the sky as blue as blue. And the yellow frogs in "The frog he

would a wooing go," and the Walter Crane illustrations for the little

book of songs.

You must make them sing "Oh, What Have You Got for Dinner, Mrs. Bond?"

and "Oranges and Lemons" and "Lavender's blue, Diddle-Diddle."

Do you know what Aunt Isabelle is making for the little girls? She is

so interested. Such rosy little aprons of pink and white checked

gingham--with wide strings to tie behind. And my contribution is pink

hair ribbons. Now won't your garden bloom?

You must tell me how their little garden plots come on. Surely that

was an inspiration. I told Porter about them the other night, and he

said, "For Heaven's sake, who ever heard of beginning with gardens in

the education of ignorant children?"

But you and I begin and end with gardens, don't we? Were the seeds all

right, and did the bulbs come up? Aunt Isabelle almost cried over your

description of the joy on the little faces when the crocuses they had

planted appeared.

I am eager to hear more of them, and of you. Oh, yes, and of Cousin

Patty. I simply love her.

There's so much more to say, but I mustn't. I must go to bed, and be

fresh for my work in the morning.

Ever sincerely, MARY BALLARD.

Among the Pines.

I shall have to begin at the last of your letter, and work toward the

beginning, for it is of my sad children that I must speak

first--although my pen is eager to talk about you, and what your letter

has meant to me.

The sad children are no longer sad. Against the sand-hills they are

like rose petals blown by the wind. Their pink aprons tied in the back

with great bows, and the pink ribbons have transformed them, so that,

except for their blank eyes, they might be any other little girls in

the world.




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