remember that once, at Box Hill, I'd felt the living
clasp of the hand which had written that wonderful series of poems.
But never before did I quite understand that elaborated essay in
love-moods. It came like a friendly voice, like an understanding
comrade who knows the world better than I do, and brought me comfort,
even though the sweetness of it was slightly acidulated, like a
lemon-drop. And as for myself, I suppose I'll continue to

"............sit contentedly
And eat my pot of honey on the grave."

_Sunday the Second_

I have written to Uncle Carlton again, asking him about my Chilean
Nitrate shares. If the company's reorganized and the mines opened
again, surely my stock ought to be worth something.

The days are getting shorter, and the hot weather is over for good, I
hope. I usually like autumn on the prairie, but the thought of fall,
this year, doesn't fill me with any inordinate joy. I'm unsettled and
atonic, and it's just as well, I fancy, that I'm weaning the Twins.

It's not the simple operation I'd expected, but the worst is already
over. Pee-Wee is betraying unmistakable serpentine powers, and it's no
longer safe to leave him on a bed. Poppsy is a fastidious little lady,
and apparently a bit of a philosopher. She is her father's favorite.
Whinstane Sandy is loyal to little Dinkie, and, now that the evenings
are longer, regales him on stories, stories which the little tot can
only half understand. But they must always be about animals, and
Whinnie seems to run to wolves. He's told the story of the skater and
the wolves, with personal embellishments, and Little Red Riding-Hood
in a version all his own, and last night, I noticed, he recounted the
tale of the woman in the sleigh with her children when the pack of
wolves pursued her. And first, to save herself and her family, she
threw her little baby out to the brutes. And when they had gained on
her once more, she threw out her little girl, and then her little boy,
and then her biggest boy of ten. And when she reached a settlement and
told of her deliverance, the Oldest Settler took a wood-ax and clove
her head clear down to the shoulder-blades--the same, of course, being
a punishment for saving herself at the expense of her little ones.

My Dinkie sat wriggling his toes with delight, the tale being of that
gruesome nature which appeals to him. It must have been tried on
countless o