Beloved: I am getting quite out of letter-writing, and it is your doing,
not mine. No sooner do I get a line from you than you rush over in person
and take the answer to it out of my mouth!
I have had six from you in the last week, and believe I have only
exchanged you one: all the rest have been nipped in the bud by your
arrivals. My pen turns up a cross nose whenever it hears you coming now,
and declares life so dull as not to be worth living. Poor dinky little
Othello! it shall have its occupation again to-day, and say just what it
likes.
It likes you while you keep away: so that's said! When I make it write
"come," it kicks and tries to say "don't." For it is an industrious
minion, loves to have work to do, and never complains of overhours. It
is a sentimental fact that I keep all its used-up brethren in an
inclosure together, and throw none of them away. If once they have
ridden over paper to you, I turn them to grass in their old age. I let
this out because I think it is time you had another laugh at me.
Laugh, dearest, and tell me that you have done so if you want to make me
a little more happy than I have been this last day or two. There has
been too much thinking in the heads of both of us. Be empty-headed for
once when you write next: whether you write little or much, I am sure
always of your full heart: but I cannot trust your brain to the same
pressure: it is such a Martha to headaches and careful about so many
things, and you don't bring it here to be soothed as often as you
should--not at its most needy moments, I mean.
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