“I am happy to say that I know nothing whatever of politics at home, and I hope to keep in the same blessed state of ignorance until I return next June. Then I shall take up political work again, but probably not in any direct partisan sense,--that is, I will go in with the _Outlook_ people on such matters as the conservation of natural resources, the control of big corporations, and how to deal with socialism, and the like.” The above shows clearly how strong were his intentions not to interfere in any way with the administration then in power. On June 21, in a letter headed “On Safari,” he writes: “I am so busy writing my _Scribner_ articles that I have but little time to write family letters, except of course, the letters to Edith. I have had plenty to write about for _Scribner’s_, but it is not always easy to write in the field, and I do not really know how I have done it. Sometimes when I come in early from a hunt, I just point blank refuse to write at all, and spend an hour or two reading a book from the ‘Pigskin Library,’ which has been the utmost possible comfort and pleasure. Fond though I am of hunting and of wilderness life, I could not thoroughly enjoy either if I were not able, from time to time, to turn to my books. I am anxiously looking for news of your Helen and the baby that is to be. “Kermit is a great pleasure to me. My trouble with him is that he is altogether too bold,--pushing, daring, almost to recklessness.” Writing in October to my husband (there never was a more devoted friendship than existed between him and my husband), he says: “You old trump, Douglas. I really do believe that you are about the best fellow and the staunchest friend alive. Your letter was really delightful. I am so glad Bridges told you that they liked the _Scribner_ articles. I only hope they guess right as far as the public is concerned. “I hope the Robinson Minimus or Minima has arrived. [Referring to the expected baby in my eldest son’s family.] Of course, to go back to Henderson was terribly hard for you both at first, but it would have been the worst possible mistake to have avoided it or left it. The nettle had to be grasped.” What a characteristic sentence! It _had_ been very hard to go back to our old home, but, as he said, “the nettle had to be grasped.” I don’t think in his whole life he failed to grasp any nettle that had to be grasped. In a letter of the same date to me he says, referring again to our sorrow: “As our lives draw toward the end, we are sure to meet bitter sorrow, and we must meet it undauntedly. I have just been writing Cabot and Nannie [they had lost their talented son, the young poet George Cabot Lodge] and again, there was nothing for me to say.... It has been a horrible wrench for me to leave Edith during this trip, but I am sure I have done the wise thing from every standpoint.”