I have been working pretty hard this week, studying for a history examination, and so haven't had much of a chance to write to you. Everything is about the same as usual here, and there doesn't seem to be much news to write to you about. The box came all right, and thank you very much. All the fellows liked it, especially the little apple pies. Thank you very much for sending it. There hasn't much been happening here since I wrote you last week. I had to buy a new pair of running drawers, which cost me fifty cents. Does that come out of my allowance? Or will you pay for it? There doesn't seem to be any other news. Well, there goes the bell, so I guess I will be closing. Your loving son, BUXTON. Given the same, even less interesting conditions, and a boy such as Stevenson must have been (judging from his letters) could probably have delivered himself of this, and more, too: _Wyckham-Wyckham,_ _The Tenth._ DEAR PATER:--To-day has been unbelievably exquisite! Great, undulating clouds, rolling in serried formation across a sky of pure _lapis lazuli_. I feel like what Updike calls a "myrmidon of unhesitating amplitude." And a perfect gem of a letter from Toto completed the felicitous experience. You would hardly believe, and yet you must, in your _cœur des cœurs_, know, that the brown, esoteric hills of this Oriental retreat affect me like the red wine of Russilon, and, indigent as I am in these matters, I cannot but feel that you have, as Herbert says: _"Carve or discourse; do not a famine fear._ _Who carves is kind to two, who talks to all."_ Yesterday I saw a little native boy, a veritable boy of the streets, playing at a game at once so naïve and so resplendent that I was irresistibly drawn to its contemplation. You will doubtless jeer when I tell you. He was tossing a small _blatch_, such as grow in great profusion here, to and fro between himself and the wall of the _limple_. I was stunned for the moment, and then I realized that I was looking into the very soul of the peasantry, the open stigma of the nation. How queer it all seemed! Did it not? You doubtless think me an ungrateful fellow for not mentioning the delicious assortment of goodies which came, like melons to Artemis, to this benighted _gesellschaft_ on Thursday last. They were devoured to the last crumb, and I was reminded as we ate, like so many _wurras_, of those lines of that gorgeous Herbert, of whom I am so fond: _"Must all be veiled, while he that reads divines,_ _Catching the sense at two removes?"_ The breeze is springing up, and it brings to me messages of the open meadows of Litzel, deep festooned with the riot of gloriannas. How quiet they seem to me as I think of them now! How emblematic! Do you know, my dear Parent, that I sometimes wonder if, after all, it were not better to dream, and dream ... and dream. Your affectionate son, BERGQUIST.