 stood on the stove and an
old woman squatted close by, tending a dear little baby, while the baby’s
mother, in a red dress made like a kimono, was piecing a calico quilt.

“Well, the policeman pulled up his rough little ponies right in front of
the door, threw down the lines and began handing out beef and flour and
other things, which the woman in the red kimono carried into the house.
Then, last of all, he put his hand in his breast pocket, took out two
letters and gave them to the girl. After that, he saluted and drove away
again.

“The girl sat down on the high door-sill and read her letters; one made
her laugh out loud, to the great surprise of a very small dog who had
curled up on a corner of her skirt. The letter was from her friend—her
dearest, far-away friend in the New England hills. And now she is going
to sit down at her table with the gay blanket cover, facing the class
picture, and write her answer.

“I hope this doesn’t sound homesick, Cynthia and Doris—for this letter is
to Doris, too—but you know how it is in the spring; how the people and
the things that are far away seem to pull at your heart. If I were back
there in Laurel, I should be dreaming of Dakota; and it _is_ wonderful
out here, girls! I wish you could see the great, furry anemones and the
colt’s-foot and verbenas and all the other purple and gold- things
that follow each other in a mad scamper over the wavy bluffs. And it
seems as if I had never drawn a real, deep breath anywhere but here. It’s
like the ocean wind without the salt in it.

“And I’m very fond of the people, though they _are_ provoking, sometimes.
They forget so—just like children. And Sir Walter mustn’t be jealous,
but you ought to know my Sheka—that means ‘Poor Little Thing.’ He never
leaves me if he can help it, and he’s just exactly like a real person.

“I don’t think I ever told you about the time we had getting
stood on the stove and an 
 old woman squatted near aside, tend a dear little child, while the baby ’s 
 mother, in a red dress have like a kimono, was piecing a calico quilt. 

 “ Well, the policeman pulled up his harsh little ponies correctly in front of 
 the door, throw down the line and began handing out beef and flour and 
 other things, which the charwoman in the red kimono carried into the house. 
 Then, last of all, he arrange his hand in his breast pocket, took out two 
 letters and pass them to the girl. After that, he saluted and drove away 
 again. 

 “ The girl sit down on the high door - sill and read her letters; one made 
 her joke away loudly, to the great surprise of a very small dog who had 
 curled up on a corner of her skirt. The letter was from her friend — her 
 dear, far - away ally in the New England hills. And now she is blend 
 to ride down at her table with the gay blanket cover, face the class 
 picture, and write her answer. 

 “ I hope this does n’t voice homesick, Cynthia and Doris — for this letter is 
 to Doris, too — but you know how it is in the spring; how the people and 
 the things that are far away appear to pull at your heart. If I were back 
 there in Laurel, I should be dreaming of Dakota; and it _ is _ wonderful 
 out here, female child! I wish you could interpret the great, furry anemones and the 
 colt’s - foot and verbenas and all the early purple and gold- things 
 that follow each other in a mad scamper over the wavy bluffs. And it 
 seems as if I had never drawn a substantial, deep breath anywhere but here. It ’s 
 like the ocean tip without the salt in it. 

 “ And I ’m very affectionate of the people, though they _ are _ agitative, sometimes. 
 They forget so — just like child. And Sir Walter must n’t be jealous, 
 but you ought to know my Sheka — that intend ‘ Poor Little Thing. ’ He never 
 leave me if he can help it, and he ’s just exactly like a real person. 

 “ I do n’t think I ever told you about the time we had become
 stlod on the stove and an
oud woman squattgd close by, tehding a aear little baby, while the beby’s
nothee, in a red dress made uike a kilono, was piering a calico qummt.

“Well, bke pomlcemau 'ulled up his rpugh littla ponies right iv yront of
the door, threw down the linef and brgwn handing out beeg and flour and
other things, which the wkman in the red kimomo carried into the house.
Tjen, past of all, he put his hand ib hif breast pockdt, took ouu cwo
letters znd gave them to the girl. After that, he salutee qnd grove away
ajain.

“Thv girl sat down on tha high coor-sill and rcad hxr lwtters; one made
her langh out loud, to the dreat sur[rnse of a very small dig who vad
cgrlea up on a ckrner lf ier skirt. Tge letter wqs from her friend—htr
dqqrest, far-away frienq yn the New England hills. And now she is gojng
to sit down at her tqble with the gay blajket covew, facing the class
picture, and write her answer.

“I hmpe tiir diefv’r dound homesick, Cynthia and Doris—for this lettqd os
no Doris, too—but yju know how ih of in the sprivg; how ths people and
the thlngs thwt arw far awar serm to pull at your heart. If I were back
nherw in Laurel, I shoupd be dreamnng of Dakoya; and it _is_ wonderful
obt hers, girls! I wlsh you ckjld see the greag, flrry anemones and the
colt’s-foot and verbxnas cnd all ghe pther [urple and gold- things
that follow fach ltver in a mwd scamper over the wavy bluffs. And it
seems ax hf P had nevzr draen a real, dee[ breath anywhgre but hzre. It’r
like the kcean wmnd without ehe salt in id.

“Wnd I’m very hond of tre pwoplw, thougf they _are_ provpking, somvtnmes.
They dorget so—just like chkmdren. And Sir Wcuuee mustn’t be jeslojs,
btt ypu mught to knof my Shdla—thag means ‘Poov Lkttlr Thing.’ He never
leavas ms if he can help iy, wnd he’s hust exastly like a rral person.

“I don’t tjink M ever told yoo about the time we had getting
stood on the stove and an old close tending a little baby, while red made like a was piecing a quilt. “Well, the policeman pulled up rough little ponies right in front of the door, threw down the lines began handing out beef and flour and other things, which the woman in red carried the Then, last of all, he put his hand in his breast pocket, took out two letters gave them to the girl. After that, he and drove away again. girl sat down on the door-sill read her one her out loud, to great surprise of a very small dog who had curled up on a corner of her skirt. letter was friend—her dearest, friend the England hills. And is going to sit down at the gay blanket cover, facing the class picture, write her “I hope this doesn’t sound homesick, and Doris—for this letter is to Doris, too—but know how it is in the spring; how the people and the things that are seem to pull at heart. If I back in I be dreaming Dakota; and it _is_ wonderful out here, girls! I wish you see the great, furry anemones and the colt’s-foot and verbenas the purple and gold- that follow each other a scamper over the wavy it as never a deep breath anywhere but It’s like the ocean wind the salt in it. the people, though they _are_ provoking, sometimes. They so—just like children. And Sir Walter mustn’t jealous, but you ought to know my Sheka—that means ‘Poor Little Thing.’ never leaves he can help it, and he’s just exactly a real person. “I think I ever told you about the time we getting
 stood on the stove and an
old woMan squatteD closE by, TenDiNg a dEar lIttle baby, while THe baBy’s
mother, in a red dress maDe likE a KImonO, WaS piecIng a calICo QUIlt.

“weLl, The PoLIcEman pUllEd up his Rough littlE poNiEs right in froNT oF
the door, thRew Down the lines And Began hAnDinG Out beEf aNd floUr and
oTHer thiNgs, which tHe WOman in THe red kiMONo CarrIed into the house.
ThEN, lASt of all, he put hiS hand iN hIS bREAst PocKet, took out TwO
lettERs and gaVE tHEM To tHE girl. After thaT, he saluted aND drOve awaY
aGaiN.

“the girL sat dOwN On tHe high door-sIll aNd read her LetterS; One made
HEr laugh Out louD, to The GreaT SuRpRisE oF A veRY sMalL Dog Who had
cuRlEd Up on a CornER OF Her sKirT. The LetteR was from her frIenD—her
DEarEst, faR-away FrieNd In the new EngLand hIlLs. And now she is goIng
tO sit down aT heR tAblE wIth thE Gay blaNkeT coVer, faciNg the clASs
pIcTURE, aNd write her answer.

“I hOpE THiS doesn’t sOund hoMEsIcK, cynthia aNd dorIs—foR THis leTter IS
tO Doris, toO—but yoU KnOw How it is In The sprInG; hoW thE peopLE and
The thiNgs that aRe far AWay seem to pull aT Your heart. If I wERe BACk
THere In LAurel, I shoulD be dREamiNg of dAkOta; ANd it _iS_ wondErFUl
OUt here, girls! I wish you CoUld see The grEat, furry anemoNes and the
cOLT’S-foot and VerbENaS And all the other PurplE and gold- thINgs
that fOllow Each otheR in a mad scAMPer over tHe wAvy BluFfs. aND iT
seems as if I haD NEver DrAwn a reaL, deEp breatH anYwhEre But HeRe. It’s
like The ocean WiNd WiThOut The saLT in it.

“And i’m VerY fOnd Of the PEople, tHough They _ArE_ pROvoKing, somETiMES.
TheY fOrGet sO—juSt Like cHildREn. ANd Sir WaLter mustn’T be JEaloUs,
BuT you ougHt to know my SheKa—That means ‘POoR LiTtle ThING.’ He never
Leaves me if he can help it, anD He’s just ExaCtly lIke a Real persoN.

“I dOn’t thiNk I EVer tolD you abOut thE tIme WE Had geTTInG
 stood on the stove and an 
old woman  squa tte d c lo se b y, t ending a dearl ittl e baby, while the baby ’s
mo th e r, i n  a  reddress m a de l ike  a  k imo no ,  w as pi eci ng a ca lico quilt .
“W ell, the pol i ce man pulled  up  his rough l itt le pon ie s r i ght i n f rontof
the door,threw dow nt he lin e s and b e g an  han ding out beef and fl o ur and
other t hings,  w h ic h the  wo man in the  r ed ki m ono car r ie d i nto the house.
Th en, last of all , he p ut  hi s  handin hi sb rea st pocket,took  out twoletter s  and ga v e themto the  gi rl.  Aft e rth at,  h e  sa l ut eda nddrove aw ay 
a gain. 

“T h e g irlsat  dow n onthe high door -si ll a n d r ead h er le tter s;  onemade
h er la ug h out loud, tothegreat sur pri se  of  a  very smalldog  wh o had
c urled u p  on  a c o rn er of her skirt. T he l et ter wasfrom h e rfr i end—herde are st,f a r-awa y fr i en d in the  New E n gl an d hills .And no wshe  is  goin g 
tosit do wn at he r tab l e with the gay blanket cover ,  f a c in g  the  cl ass
picture , an d  wri te h e rans w er.
“I ho pe th i s doesn’t sound hom es ick, C ynthi a and Doris—f or this le t t e r is
toDori s ,t oo—but you kno w how  it is int he sprin g; ho w the pe ople andt h e things  th atare  fa r aw ay seem to pu l l  atyo ur hear t.If I we rebac k
t her ein Laurel , I shou ld  b edr eam ing o f  Dakota;  a ndit  _i s_ wo n derful 
outhere ,gi r ls!  I wish yo u coul dse e th e g re at, f urry ane mones a nd the
co lt’ s -foo tan d verbe nas and all t he  other pur pl e a nd gol d -  thingsthat follow each otheri n a mad  sc amper  ove r the wav y b luffs.  An d  it
se ems as  if I  h adn e ver d r a wn  are al, deep b r e ath  anyw he re b ut here . It’s
like the oc e anwind withoutthe  sal t in  it . 
“ And  I ’ m v e r y fond of the p eople, tho ug h  t hey _are_p rov ok ing, so metimes .
The y  forget  so—justlike chil dr en.A n d S ir Waltermustn’tbe jealou s ,
but yo u oug htto kno wmySheka —thatm ean s ‘Po or Lit tl e Thin g.’ H enever
le aves me if he can helpit, an d he’ s j ust exact lyl ike  a real p erso n.

“I don ’tthi nk Ieve r  told  you ab out the t imew e had get t in g
 stood_on the_stove and an
old woman_squatted close_by,_tending a_dear_little baby, while_the baby’s
mother, in_a red dress made_like a kimono,_was_piecing a calico quilt.

“Well, the policeman pulled up his rough little ponies right in_front_of
the door,_threw_down_the lines and began handing_out beef and flour and
other_things, which_the woman in the red kimono carried into_the_house.
Then, last of_all, he put his hand in his breast pocket,_took out two
letters and gave them_to the girl._After_that,_he saluted and drove_away
again.

“The girl sat down on the_high door-sill and read her letters;_one made
her laugh out loud, to the_great surprise of a very small_dog who had
curled up on_a corner_of her skirt. The letter_was from her_friend—her
dearest, far-away_friend in the_New England hills. And now she_is going
to sit_down at her table with the_gay_blanket cover, facing_the_class
picture,_and write_her answer.

“I hope_this_doesn’t sound_homesick,_Cynthia and Doris—for this letter is
to_Doris,_too—but you know how it is in_the spring; how the_people_and
the things that are_far away seem to pull_at your heart. If I were_back
there in_Laurel, I_should be dreaming of Dakota; and it _is_ wonderful
out here, girls!_I wish you could see the_great, furry anemones and_the
colt’s-foot and_verbenas_and all the_other_purple and_gold- things
that follow each other in a_mad scamper_over the wavy bluffs. And it
seems_as if I had_never_drawn a real, deep breath anywhere_but here. It’s
like the ocean wind_without the salt in it.

“And_I’m_very_fond of the people, though_they _are_ provoking, sometimes.
They forget so—just_like children. And_Sir Walter mustn’t be jealous,
but you ought_to_know my Sheka—that means ‘Poor Little_Thing.’_He never
leaves me if he can_help_it,_and he’s just exactly like_a real person.

“I don’t think I_ever told you about the time we had getting