This can be no more than a very little letter, for it is being written in an interval stolen from the Dairy-farmer work – which I confess I dislike strongly. Tomorrow is all right I hope, I’ll see you at the Dairy circa eight o clock and you can tell your Mother that I shall not allow you to stay late, you shall go on the 10.35 Corporation bus, and if you get all Tragic Muse then we’ll fetch the bus here and carry you in to it.
I shall have the motor on Wednesday, or so I hope, all very smart and swagger, but quite unnecessary as regards the expense.
I’ve had a gloom day, barren of hope, stripped of reason, wherein prospects seemed black and the hopes of making a living for one, let alone for two, seemed hopelessly remote. Bleak days, heralds of good productive fertile ones ahead I suppose. I worked stolidly, and scowled much and thought “Pah” about the Children’s Hour. I need a spot of luck soon, a “break” to buoy up hopes. So speed the hours until some comfort in the form of yourself is here. The question is, do I live in a Fool’s Paradise, or is my course practicable ? I don’t know, but the gloom is shifting turgidly.
Your home environment doesn’t suit you, it is a repressed uncertain Elizabeth, not the confidant, gracious and stimulating Betty of elsewhere; not that you don’t look as nice as ever, and are not as nice as ever, it is a certain difficultness of temperament. Away from your home you will and you are a free spirit, in your home you are somehow restricted and bewildered.
I have sad news, That there burd passed away peacefully at 10.15 this morning. He was well enough first thing and broke his fast off a little chopped egg, and gave seven pairs of tweets. Then he was left to his devices, And when Mrs. Brooks went to him next time, alas, his spirit had fled. The funeral is this evening at seven o’clock, We are invited, but I couldn’t go. He was a BLUE TIT-MOUSE ! They used nature books galore, in his presence, looking at pictures and him.
