It seems busy enough to me. I am afraid it
will--to you, still so willing to fight, still so absorbed in the
struggle, and still so over-fond of your species--seem futile. Who
knows which of us is right ?--or if our difference of opinion may not be
a difference in our years? If all who love one another were of the same
opinion, living would be monotonous, and conversation flabby. So cheer
up. You are content. Allow me to be.
Ill
June 20, 1914.
I have just received your letter--the last, you say, that you can send
before you sail away again for "The Land of the Free and the Home of the
Brave," where you still seem to feel that it is my duty to return to
die. I vow I will not discuss that with you again. Poverty is an
unpretty thing, and poverty plus old age simply horrid in the wonderful
land which saw my birth, and to which I take off my sun-bonnet in
reverent admiration, in much the same spirit that the peasants still
uncover before a shrine. But it is the land of the young, the
energetic, and the ambitious, the ideal home of the very rich and the
laboring classes. I am none of those--hence here I stay.
Pages:
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38