The scenery around here is perfectly beautiful.  There’s a valley and a river and a lot of wooded hills, and way in the distance a tall blue mountain that simply melts in your mouth.

We churn twice a week; and we keep the cream in the spring house which is made of stone with the brook running underneath.  Some of the farmers around here have a separator, but we don’t care for these new-fashioned ideas.  It may be a little harder to separate the cream in pans, but it’s sufficiently better to pay.  We have six calves; and I’ve chosen the names for all of them.

1.  Sylvia, because she was born in the woods.

2.  Lesbia, after the Lesbia in Catullus.

3.  Sallie.

4.  Julia—­a spotted, nondescript animal.

5.  Judy, after me.

6.  Daddy-Long-Legs.  You don’t mind, do you, Daddy?  He’s pure Jersey and has a sweet disposition.  He looks like this—­you can see how appropriate the name is.

I haven’t had time yet to begin my immortal novel; the farm
keeps me too busy. 
                               Yours always,
                                               Judy

PS.  I’ve learned to make doughnuts.

PS. (2) If you are thinking of raising chickens, let me recommend
Buff Orpingtons.  They haven’t any pin feathers.

PS. (3) I wish I could send you a pat of the nice, fresh butter
I churned yesterday.  I’m a fine dairy-maid!

PS. (4) This is a picture of Miss Jerusha Abbott, the future great author, driving home the cows.

Sunday

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

Isn’t it funny?  I started to write to you yesterday afternoon, but as far as I got was the heading, `Dear Daddy-Long-Legs’, and then I remembered I’d promised to pick some blackberries for supper, so I went off and left the sheet lying on the table, and when I came back today, what do you think I found sitting in the middle of the page?  A real true Daddy-Long-Legs!

I picked him up very gently by one leg, and dropped him out of the window.  I wouldn’t hurt one of them for the world.  They always remind me of you.

We hitched up the spring wagon this morning and drove to the Centre to church.  It’s a sweet little white frame church with a spire and three Doric columns in front (or maybe Ionic—­I always get them mixed).

A nice sleepy sermon with everybody drowsily waving palm-leaf fans, and the only sound, aside from the minister, the buzzing of locusts in the trees outside.  I didn’t wake up till I found myself on my feet singing the hymn, and then I was awfully sorry I hadn’t listened to the sermon; I should like to know more of the psychology of a man who would pick out such a hymn.  This was it: 

Come, leave your sports and earthly toys
And join me in celestial joys. 
Or else, dear friend, a long farewell. 
I leave you now to sink to hell.