Mr. P. enclosed your kind note in one of his own, after first reading it himself, if you ever heard of such a man.  I had to laugh all alone while reading it, which was not a little provoking.  We are having very nice times here indeed.  Breakfast at eight, dinner at half-past twelve, and tea at half-past six, giving us an afternoon of unprecedented length for such lounging, strawberrying or egg-hunting as happens to be on the carpet.  The air is perfectly loaded with the fragrance of clover blossoms and fresh hay.  I never saw such clover in my life; roses are nothing in comparison.  I only want an old nag and a wagon, so as to drive a load of children about these lovely regions, and that I hope every moment to attain.  To be sure, it would be amazingly convenient if I had a table, and didn’t have to sit on the floor to write upon a trunk; but then one can’t have everything, and I am almost too comfortable with what I have.  A. is busy reading Southey to her “children”; baby is off searching for eggs, and her felicity reached its height when she found an ambitious hen had laid two in her carriage, which little thought what it was coming to the country for.  I think the dear child already looks better; she lives in the open air and enjoys everything.

Mrs. Buck lives about half a mile below us, and we run back and forth many times a day.  I have already caught the country fashion of rushing to the windows the moment a wheel or an opening gate is heard.  I fancy everybody is bringing me a letter or else want to send one to the office, and the only way to do that is to scream at passers-by and ask them if they are going that way.  If you hear that I am often seen driving a flock of geese down the road, or climbing stone walls, or creeping through bar fences, you needn’t believe a word of it, for I am a pattern of propriety, and pride myself on my dignity.  I hope, now you have begun so charmingly, that you will write again.  You know what letters are in the country.

To her Husband, Westport, June 27.

I wonder where you are this lovely morning?  Having a nice time somewhere, I do hope, for it is too fine a day to be lost.  If you want to know where I am, why I’m sitting at the window writing on a trunk that I have just lifted into a chair, in order to make a table.  For table there, is none in this room, and how am I to write a book without one?  If ever I get down to the village, I hope to buy, beg, borrow or steal one, and until that time am putting off beginning my new Little Susy. [7] That note from Miss Warner, by the by, spoke so enthusiastically of the Six Teachers that I felt compensated for the mortification of hearing -------- call it a “nice” book.  You will be sorry to hear that I have no prospect of getting a horse.  I am quite disappointed, as besides the pleasure of driving our children, I hoped to give Mrs. Buck and the boys a share in it.  Only to think of her bringing up from the city a beefsteak