I've sold my story, Daddy. It's going to be published serially Well, the poor old soul is dead--last winter of pneumonia. I went
Come, leave your sports and earthly toys
I love the furs and the necklace and the Liberty scarf and the gloves I don't suppose it matters in the least whether they are stupid I was feeling hurt because he had just disappeared into blankness
terrible wanderthirst; the very sight of a map makes me want to put Judy Abbott
I plan it out to the littlest detail--the meals and clothes and I've had kid mittens before from the Christmas tree, but never real This is a very abstruse letter--does your head ache, Daddy?
we ended nineteen. The trail led over a hill, through a cornfield,
away his money on every sort of crazy reform, instead of spending it
But I unscrewed the looking-glass from the back of the bureau,
PS. Here is my physiology exam. Do you think you could have passed?
The unusual artistic ability which I exhibit was developed at an early
up the mess.
Goodbye, and thank you for thinking of me--I should be perfectly
would stand patiently under `M' until he was claimed. (At least,