I have wanted so often to write you -- not that I like writing 
letters -- I loathe it — but just that I have wanted to write 
to you. About what, I don’t know, in particular. -- Perhaps to 
ask the advice of the Sage of the Hill -- perhaps to tell you 
that the young wrens in the house under the peak of the ice-house 
are flying this morning (and what a to-do! And what beautiful singing 
from their father! -- as if to say: some day you will have as 
handsome feathers as I, and a tail that sticks up straight behind 
your rump, and a song as beautiful as mine -- you boys, that is, -- and
even you girls will have fun, engineering long twigs through small 
doorways!) -- this is just to say Hello, darling Artie. --