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I took a cold, which added to a sore throat which I had been ailing with since Sunday, plus a hacking cough which I would have been glad to dispose of to a woodchopper, left me feeling like the last rose of Summer. Any day, from Wednesday up to last night, I should have sold all my property and ambitions and ideals for a song, just to get rid of the burden of worry that augmented the illness. I tell you with a raging headache I didn't feel like a fighting-cock as I hammered away at that bugaloo thesis of mine.

But I'm feeling O.K. now; for which I am duly grateful.

I trust you and Pa may by this time be rid of your colds.

As to your paper on Romp! Say, you're a "keen gazaber." You want me to write it for you - and do all the work, and then you'll step in, read it to an admiring assemblage, blandly receive all the applause, and unblushing claim it to be the work of your own genius.

Now, a suggestion or two as to that! In the first place I'll