THE RED RUGS OF TARSUS
erhood. It was better than Christmas, when Daddy Christie and Herbert opened your box. I have my small steamer trunk right beside our wardrobe, and am playing it is the baby hamper. The trunk is nearly brand new, and will do very well when we leave here in June, for it will hold all the baby things.
A perfume can whisk your mind five thou- sand miles from your body. I am sitting be- side our white iron bed, sniffing. There is the faint unfamiliar odor given out by my cedar woodwork, the smell of fresh whitewash on new walls, the warm breath of a log fire. Dominat- ing it all is the clean clover sachet you sprinkled among the baby clothes. The sachet carried my memory straight back to home, for it smells like your upper bureau drawer.
The baby things came this morning, and I
have arranged them on the bed, so that when
Herbert comes back from teaching his Greek
class, he will get the full benefit. Dresses and
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