(I just read this last paragraph to Madge, to see if she called it gossip, as I was going to take it out if it belonged to her topic, but she said No, she didn’t call it gossip at all—that she should call it slander!) You don’t know how we all long to see you, dear darling that you are. We live in the hope of having you with us very soon, and meanwhile the beautiful bedstead is almost finished, and a perfect success. (I wish to withdraw the last three quarters of that sentence, for obvious reasons!!) Dear, dear! Geoffrey calls ‘Time up,’ and I’ve scarcely said anything I should. Never, never again will I submit to this method of correspondence; it is absolutely petrifying to one’s genius. When I am once forced to walk in a path, nothing but the whole out-of-doors will satisfy me. I’m very much afraid I haven’t amused you, dear,— But when I lie in the green kirkyard, With the mould upon my breast, Say not that ‘She did well or ill,’ Only, ‘She did her best.’ Now, do you think that will interfere with Bell, when it’s only a quotation? Any way, it’s so appropriate that Uncle Doc will never have the heart to strike it out. The trouble is that Geoff thinks all the poetry in the universe is locked up in Bell’s head, and if she once allows it to escape, Felicia Hemans and the rest will be too discouraged ever to try again! (I can’t remember whether F. H. is alive or not, and am afraid to ask, but you will know that I don’t mean to be disrespectful.) Laura, Anne, and Scott Burton were here for the play, and Laura is coming down again to spend the week. I can’t abide her, and there will probably be trouble in the camp. The flame of my genius blazes high just now, but Geoff has spoken, and it must be snuffed. So good-bye! _Sizz-z-z_!! and I’m _out_! POLLIOLIVER. II. FROM PHILIP TO ELSIE. CAMP CHAPARRAL, _July_ 8, 188–. MY DEAR ELSIE,—I believe I am to inform you concerning the daily doings of our party, not on any account, however, permitting myself to degenerate into ‘gossip’ or ‘frivolous amusement.’ They evidently consider me a quiet, stupid fellow, who will fulfil such a task with no special feeling of repression, and I dare say they are quite right. They call me the ‘solid man’ of the camp, which may not be very high praise, to be sure, as Geoffrey carries his head in the clouds, and Jack is—well, Jack is Jack! So, as the light of a tallow dip is valuable in the absence of sun and moon, I am raised to a fictitious reputation. We fellows have had very little play so far, for the furnishing of the camp has proved an immense undertaking, although we have plenty of the right sort of wood and excellent tools.