read me the opening lines, after that bland habit of young writer; and as nearly as I recollect, they began as follows:
“I love to have gardens, I love to have plants,
I love to have air, and I love to have ants.”
When not under the spell of mediæval chivalry she prattles needlessly of Georgiana, early life, and their old home in Henderson. Although I have pointed out to her the gross impropriety of her conduct, she has persisted in reading me some of Georgiana’s letters, written from the home of that New York cousin, whose mother they are now visiting. I didn’t like him particularly. Sylvia relates that he was a favorite of her father’s.
The dull month passes to-day. One thing I have secretly wished to learn; did her brother cut Georgiana’s toes entirely off?