Dearest, what I can tell you of older days,--little things they must be--I
will: and I know that if you ever come to value them at all, their
littleness will make them doubly welcome:--just as to know that you were
once called a "gallous young hound" by people whom you plagued when a boy,
was to me a darling discovery: all at once I caught my childhood's
imaginary comrade to my young spirit's heart and kissed him, brow and
eyes.
Good-night, good-night! To-morrow I will find you some earliest memory:
the dew of Hermon be on it when you come to it--if ever!
Oh, Beloved, could you see into my heart now, or I into yours, time
would grow to nothing for us; and my childhood would stay unwritten!
From far and near I gather my thoughts of you for the kiss I cannot
give. Good-night, dearest.
LETTER LXIX.
Beloved: I remember my second birthday. I am quite sure of it, because my
third I remember so infinitely well.--Then I was taken in to see Arthur
lying in baby bridal array of lace fringes and gauze, and received in my
arms held up for me by Nan-nan the awful weight and imperial importance of
his small body.
I think from the first I was told of him as my "brother": cousin I have
never been able to think him. But all this belongs to my third: on my
second, I remember being on a floor of roses; and they told me if I
would go across to a clipboard and pull it open there would be something
there waiting for me.
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