The postcards of Southampton are all pictures of beautiful new houses which rich people have built among the dunes. I could not get old ones, though Southampton's soul is very, very old, full of memories of Indians and early English settlers who were jealous of the Dutch. Now it is a colony of "cottages" bigger than many of our French chateaux, and of the most unexpected, charming shapes, covered with flowers. Girls and boys who like to dance and have fun all summer like it better than Easthampton, so their mothers have to like it better, too. You will not believe when you look at the pictures that not three hundred years ago, if there had been postcards then, you would have seen only forty rough log-houses built behind palisades for fear of Indians; maybe the watch-house was where the Country Club is now! Instead of dances and parties the only pleasure was to go to church, where you were called by the roll of a drum. A stern man named Thomas Sayres beat on the drum and you had to go whether you liked or not, because Abraham Pierson, the first minister, governed the state as well as church. I am not sure even the Indians weren't nicer to live with, because they liked beads and bright things, as we do, especially mirrors. Why, they sold anything they _had_ for mirrors! And they were kind and pleasant till the Dutch and English spoilt their dispositions. _Their_ parties--yes, they _had_ parties!--were in their cornfields--oh, miles of beautiful cornfields that are covered with dark mysterious cedars now, like sad thoughts of the sunny past. The Indian families came to help each other in the cornfields, and the young men fell in love with the maidens and proposed as they do at our dances. If you said "no," perhaps they knocked you hard on your head, and took you anyhow! I am pleased it is not so now. I should not like Mr. Caspian to do it. He was very nice, though, at Southampton, and asked to have the Grayles-Grice stop at one of the shops (the most _fascinating_ shops, like at Vichy and Aix where your dear mother took us the summer before the war). There he bought wonderful bonbons--candies. I ate only one, and the Goodrich girls the rest. You will like the picture I send of the cottage which has been built on to a windmill. I should love to have that. There are lots more windmills, soft and gray and fluffy-looking, like Persian pussy cats sitting up in the dunes; so maybe I shall have one some of these days.