Dear Ian and Willie,—The Story of Rome has been written, as you know, in your beautiful, quiet old garden.
And as the story grew, the short cold days of winter passed and the long warm days of summer were here.
In the garden a miracle had been wrought. It had become alive.
After slow, persistent struggle with storm and frost, the delicate bare branches were no longer bare, but clothed in living green. The hard black earth too had stirred, and shoots and blades appeared, until at length the garden was ablaze with gold, purple, crimson.
Sometimes I dreamed that, in its own different way, the Story of Rome too was a miracle, wrought out of the tears and throes of a brave and ambitious people.
For the story tells of the birth of a city and of its growth through storm and struggle, until it became a great world empire.
The city which Romulus founded was built upon a single hill; soon seven hills were not great enough to contain her. And when Augustus, the first Emperor of Rome, began to reign, part of Europe, Asia Minor, Egypt, Syria, and a large portion of Africa formed his kingdom.
Although the story was written in the quiet of your garden, little of its peace has stolen into the tale, and for that you boys may care for it the more.
As you read, fierce battle-cries will ring in your ears, and
