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Sunday morning,

Jan. 31, '97.

My dearest Mama:

It is just eight oclock as I write these lines, and I suppose that, at this very early hour, you are sound asleep dreaming of every-one but your lovely boy.

I have had my breakfast already - and made my bed, - and now, as the wind outside is blowing - a gale through the vines that climb about the porch beneath my window, I have seated myself before my desk to write to my negligent mother - and to gently reprove her for her neglect.

About a fortnight ago I received a letter from you. You, thinking that this one letter would be sufficient for the following month, have shown a great and surprising disinclination to answer my letters.

Surely you can not excuse the fault by saying you had no time. Better, by far, to tay away from lodge Saturday night, to make your boy happy - on Sunday morning by a letter from his loving mother.

But you need not, of course, deprive yourself of this pleasure as there is a better expedient.

You doubtless spend a few min-