hink I have
always done nice little churchly things, and charitable things, but I
haven't thought as much, perhaps, about my fellow man and woman as I
might. We come to things slowly here in Washington. We are
conservative, and we have no great industrial problems, no strikes and
unions and things like that. Grace says that there is plenty here to
reform, but the squalor doesn't stick right out before your eyes as it
does in some of the dreadful tenements in the bigger cities. So we
forget--and I have forgotten. Until your letter came about that boy in
the pines.

Everything that you tell me about him is like a fairy tale. I can shut
my eyes and see you two in that circle of young pines. I can hear your
voice ringing in the stillness. You don't tell me of yourself, but I
know this, that in that boy you've found an audience--and he is doing
things for you while you are doing them for him. You are living once
more, aren't you?

And the little sad children. I was so glad to pick out the books with
the bright pictures. Weren't the Cinderella illustrations dear? With
all the gowns as pink as they could be and the grass as green as green,
and the sky as blue as blue. And the yellow frogs in "The frog he
would a wooing go," and the Walter Crane illustrations for the little
book of songs.

You must make them sing "Oh, What Have You Got for Dinner, Mrs. Bond?"
and "Oranges and Lemons" and "Lavender's blue, Diddle-Diddle."

Do you know what Aunt Isabelle is making for the little girls? She is
so interested. Such rosy little aprons of pink and white checked
gingham--with wide strings to tie behind. And my contribution is pink
hair ribbons. Now won't your garden bloom?

You must tell me how their little garden plots come on. Surely that
was an inspiration. I told Porter about them the other night, and he
said, "For Heaven's sake, who ever heard of beginning with gardens in
the education of ignorant children?"

But you and I begin and end with gardens, don't we? Were the seeds all
right, and did the bulbs come up? Aunt Isabelle almost cried over your
description of the joy on the little faces when the crocuses they had
planted appeared.

I am eager to hear more of them, and of you. Oh, yes, and of Cousin
Patty. I simply love her.

There's so much more to say, but I mustn't. I must go to bed, and be
fresh for my work in the morning.

Ever sincerely,

MARY BALLARD.

_Among the Pines._

I sha