Strange that I should think of you and your mountain home in the midst of battle, violence and death. Strange that when I went on my journey into the valley of the shadow, falling, falling, falling, into a darkness that seemed to freeze my soul, you, a little girl, were the only one near. Strange that when I came back to consciousness, it was by way of the creek valley and your home and you were leading me by the hand. Returning to consciousness I discovered it was not you but a soft-voiced, patient, white-robed Italian nurse; and I was here. What brought you so vividly to mind? Can you tell? It must have been the contrast between your home as I saw it that moonlit night and the battle field, with its barbarities, vengeances, and human abominations. There is a sharp pain when I breathe or cough. I am ill, homesick, among strangers, I feel deserted. To you, a little girl, the acquaintance of a day, some influence impels me to write, though I have heard nothing since you sent the red socks and mittens, and wrote thanking me for the books. Since I have been wounded I have learned there are many things I may not know. Tell me of your own life and picture it in your own way; and also of your part of Kentucky. Even now I see your face and hear your voice; it seems nearer than my mother’s—and she is a wonderful, much-loved woman. I do not recover my strength as I should and will be here for some time—if you care to write. Your friend, John M. Allen. ———— Lieutenant John M. Allen, ——— Hospital, Ward 11, Verona, Italy. Dear Mr. Allen: For several years I have been waiting, not daring to hope, but longing for a letter—and it came on Christmas Eve. I am answering the afternoon of Christmas Day. The earth is mantled in white, and crystals of crisp snow give back myriad rays of dazzling light stolen from the sun. The cedar trees bend low with their fluffy white burdens; and the creek is frozen, except the riffle just above Big Rock. I was just going to say that all life had taken to itself the silence of the mountain——which is a speaking silence to its own people—when I saw a hungry little nut-hatch bobbing up and down the elm; and my red birds, thinking it time I served their dinner, flew from the cedar trees and are now whistling for me from the lilac bush.