which absorbed my thoughts and attention Father bore the journey remarkably well—and appeared much less fatigued than I did—he and Miss Pierce seemed to grow fat the whole way—He was much gratified with his journey—and I think it will probably be the means of prolonging his life— Though we have passed through many pleasant towns and villages yet as we entered Litchfield Miss P and I agreed that we had not seen one that would compare with it—in neatness—& none pleasanter. Father jumped out of the stage and said—home is home—if ever so homely—I pray God that I may have a heart to be grateful to you and grateful to him for the many mercies I enjoy—I hope it will not be long before you will come back to this country never to return to France—Remember us affectionately to Daniel and believe me your affectionate sister LUCY SHELDON Postscript My dear Frederick & Mary I thought you would wish to know how we got along in our journey as it was something of an undertaking for a man 75 years of age—which has caused me to be thus particular—I now promise myself the pleasure of seeing you here speedily, do quit mosquito land and come to the pure air of Litchfield—I hope you will very soon, yours L.S. Please to direct this to Henry. Addressed Mr. Frederick Sheldon. Merchant 32 Warren Street New York Postage. 37½ cents Article written for the Litchfield Enquirer by Lucy Sheldon (Mrs. Beach), when near eighty years, because her village was spoken of as lonely in winter. DEAR OLD LITCHFIELD “Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said This is my own, my Native land?” Who that has wandered o’er these green hills, any bright June Morning, and viewed the smiling landscape, hill & dale, dotted with thrifty farm houses, the Silver Lakes, the distant Mountains, the Village, like a City on a hill, tho’ surrounded with Hills, the clear blue sky; has inhaled the pure dry air, giving health & vigor to the system, but will exclaim with raptured heart, “My Father made them all!” Where does the merry Bobolink, the gay Meadowlark, the Blue Bird, the domestic Robin, the Oriole, sing their Maker’s Praise with a louder, sweeter song, than on these hills & and in these Vallies, And as the Sun sinks in the West, the low voice of the Whip poor will is heard in the Vales below, At Evening how soft the Moonbeams sleep on yon glassy Lake, and how bright they twinkle, as you walk these streets thro the long avenue of trees, forming shadows, which seem like some magic picture of beauty.