Lovingly yours, Dorrie. Last of all was Kit’s, six sheets of pencilled scribbling, crowded together on both sides. I’m writing this the last thing at night, dear sister mine, when my brain is getting calm. Any old time the poet starts singing blithesomely of ye joys of springtide I hope he lands on this waste spot the first weeks in March. Jean, the frost is thawing in the roads, and that means the roads are simply falling in. You drive over one in the morning, and at night it isn’t there at all. There’s just a slump, understand. I’m so afraid that Princess will break her legs falling into a Gilead quagmire, I hardly dare drive her. I suppose Mother has written that we have a guest coming from Saskatoon. I feel very philosophical about it. It will do Dad good, and I’ll be glad to see Honey again. Billie’s coming home for Easter, thank goodness. He’s human. Do you suppose you will be here then? What do you do all day? Gallivant lightsomely around the adjacent landscape with Cousin Beth, or languish with the Contessa and Carlota in some luxurious spot, making believe you’re nobility too. Remember, Jean Robbins, the rank is but the guinea’s stamp, “a man’s a man for a’ that.” Whatever would you do without your next sister to keep you balanced along strict republican lines? Don’t mind me. We’ve been studying comparisons between forms of government at school, and I’m completely jumbled on it all. I can’t make up my mind what sort of a government I want to rule over. This kingship business seems to be so uncertain. Poor old King Charles and Louis, and the rest. I’m to be Charlotte Corday at the prison window in one of our monthly tableaux. Like the picture? If you do see any of the spring styles, don’t be afraid to send them home. Even while we cannot indulge, it’s something to look at them. I don’t want any more middies. They are just a subterfuge. I want robes and garments. And how are the girls wearing their hair in quaint old Boston town? Mine’s getting too long to do anything with, and I feel Quakerish with it. It’s an awful nuisance trying to look like everybody else. I’ll be glad when I can live under a greenwood tree some place, with a stunning cutty sark on of dull green doeskin. Do you know what a cutty sark is? Read Bobby Burns, my child. I opine it’s a cross between a squaw’s afternoon frock and a witch’s kirtle. But it is graceful and comfortable, and I shall always wear one when I take to the forest to stay.