DEAR AUNT MARY:
It seems so strange how I'm just learning the pleasure of writing
letters. I enjoy it more every day. When I see a pen I can hardly
keep from feeling that I ought to write you directly. I think of
you, then, because I'm thinking of you most always. It seems as if
I never appreciated you before, Aunt Mary.
I want to tell you something that I know will make you happy. I've
never made you very happy Aunt Mary, but I'm going to begin now.
I've got a place where I can earn my own living, and I'm going to
work just as soon as I am strong enough. I'm as tickled as a baby
over it. I'll lay you any odds I get to be a richer man than the
other John Watkins. I reckon money was bad for me, Aunt Mary, and
I can see that you've done just the right thing to make a man of
me. That isn't surprising, because you always did do just the
right thing, Aunt Mary; it was I that always did just the wrong
thing, but I'm straightened out now and this time it's forever--you
just wait and see.
There's one thing bothers me some, and that is I don't get strong
very fast. They want me to take a tonic, but I don't think a tonic
would help me much. I feel so sort of blue and depressed, and
perhaps that's natural, for Bob's away most of the time and I'm
here all alone. It's a big house and sort of lonely and sometimes
I find myself imagining how it would seem to have someone from
home in it with me, and I find myself almost crying--I do, for a
fact, Aunt Mary.
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