BLACKWELL FAMILY
ALICE STONE BLACKWELL
Kitty Barry
1871OFFICE OF
The Woman's Journal
No. 3 TREMONT PLACE,
Harrison Sq. 
[Boston]Feb. 5th 187[0]1
Dear Betrothed.
I got your letter asking if Harrison
Square was a part of Boston.  It 
is called so, having been lately
annexed, and we have gas, and
pay city taxes, but it is really a 
part of Dorchester, and five
miles from the true Boston,
fifteen minutes ride on the
steam cars.  It has a separate
station, and there are no sidewalks.  
It is quite country ish.
We live in an aristocratic neighborhood, 
among big, new, French-roofed 
houses, with grounds, on 
a hill over looking the bay and 
islands, making a very pretty 
water view.  Our grounds are as 
large as those we had at Rose-

week, on a visit.  I tried to write this well but my hand
shakes and jerks
in spite of me.
I go out sliding 
in  the moonlight
on some ice
in our own 
yard,
where 
water
collected 
and
froze.
I hope to 
persuade
Mama to
bring Purr here, 
but she fears she[*will spoil the new carpets.  I still keep my diary, and have not
missed
a 
day, 
except 
when 
I 
was 
sick.  
Billy, 
our 
horse, 
is 
here, 
and 
stands 
in 
the 
barn,*]
ville several times over, and no
house can be built in front of
us to shut off our view, as we
own a clear strip down to the
bottom of the hill.  It seems as
if we had found here the good
things of all the different places
where I should like to live, with
some things belonging to neither.
We are on a hill, as at Somerville.
Have an[d] arbor vitae hedge, as at
Roseville; nine or ten evergreens,
which represent West Brookfield;
the sea, and bare brown [isl]
islands, for Martha's Vineyard,
and there happen to be a great 
many cedars in the neighborhood,
which remind me of New Jersey.
One pleasant thing is the wind,
which roars about the house
delightfully, especially at night,
and the moonlight, which is
brighter here than in any

other place I ever saw.  But it is
also very cold.  Today the thermometer, 
which was not put
in the [l]wind, went down to twenty 
two below freezing.  Still, as there 
is a furnace, a grate, and double
windows, it is not so bad.  I have
seen a wonderful cork model of
Windsor castle, which it took 
ten years to make.  The green grass
in the gardens was represented by
green cloth, and the trees and ivy
of green dry moss.  There were
photographs too, and the models
looked very much like.  The were
also models and photographs of 
[Windsor] Westminster and Melrose
abbeys, but I thought Melrose the
most beautiful of them.  Papa
has really gone to San Domingo, 
and is now, I suppose, on
his way there.  He has engaged to 
write enough letters to various

[*all alone, and in rather a melancholy state of mind.  There 
is a 
dove 
cote 
in 
the 
barn,
and 
Mama 
want 
to get 
some 
pigeons 
in 
the 
Spring. 
I am 
glad 
Papa*]**went when he did, for it is very cold and he likes heat like a 
cat.  Love to Aunt E.  Goodbye.  Alice.**

newspapers to pay his passage,
and has also, I believe, an eye to 
some private speculations in the
way of buying land there.  I do
not have any lessons now, Papa 
and Mama having made me 
drop them, but I still take the
gymnastics, and walk down to
the station and back, every day.
It is quite a distance, too.  My hens
are laying pretty well, in spite of
the cold weather.  To be sure, I 
generally only get two a day from
the whole thirteen, but I have 
had three, and even four, and they
did not lay at all when I first
had them.  Some of the eggs, too,
are quite a curiosity, they are so
very large.  Today I got five, for a 
wonder.  Thank you for the anagrams.
I saw Aunt Emily's baby, and think
it particularly ugly, it stares so.
I think I wrote you an account
of it.  The watch I got for Florence
was nearly like mine.  Aunt Sarah
and Anna are expected here next

OFFICE OF
The Woman's Journal,
No. 3 Tremont Place.
Harrison Sq., March 12 1871
Dear Kitty;
Mama says Aunt Elizabeth
has invited Papa and me 
to come and visit you in
the summer.  I really believe
there is a chance of our
coming.  I am glad you are 
"a dreadful little Republican,"
and hope Fanny wont be 
able to convert you.  Mama
has been down to New Jersey
and has seen the various
babies.  Aunt Ellen displayed 
hers saying, "Isn't it pretty!"
and Mama was obliged to 
say she does not think so.
She says it is ugly; very dark, 
with hair growing low on
its forehead, but with

**correspondent as I am!  I am jealous of every one,**bright black eyes.  Aunt
Emily's baby has had the 
scarlet fever and got well,
and plays with a stocking
in one hand and a mitten
in the other; also twirls a
string of spools.  Mama is
having the furniture of the 
West Bloomfield house to
this one.  And she wants 
you to tell Aunt Elizabeth
that Mr. William H. [Smith]
Harris said that the Montclair 
house is worth thirty
thousand dollars.  One of
my hens is sick, and they
think she has eaten salt.  We 
are afraid she will die, but
have doctored her and hope
not.  The pussy willows are
out, and new plants are
coming up every where.  I 
am having little twinges of
ear ache, and hear noises
[*and see a possible lover in every male you*]

OFFICE OF
The Woman's Journal,
No. 3 TREMONT PLACE,
[Boston,] 1870

like the trail of sound
that comes after the first
stroke on a hammer bell.
Wouldn't it be queer if I 
should set up a mill wheel
in imitation of my Betrothed?
I mean to equall or surpass 
you in size, if I 
can't in age, and I am
now taller than Mama;
though that is not saying 
much.  We have not heard
from Papa again, but a
good many of his letter have
come out in the newspapers,
and are said to be the 
best St. Domingo letters to 
be had.  I suppose you know 
that Waverly, Ivanhoe, and
Kenilworth, [ve] were borrowed
[*mention.  I shall put in my oar in favor of*]
from us before I can remember, 
and have just been
returned.  I am cutting two
teeth, my eye teeth, which is
a sign I am getting wise.
There is not much to say,
and I have given you
aboat all the news there is.
I expect a visit from Florence
in vacation.  She objects
to "Floy" now.  Would n't it
be nice if I could come
over the water next Summer?
Goodbye.  Your affy Conjug.
Have got your letter of
Feb. 27; am sorry to hear
of your evil propensities;
am jealous of Fanny; shall
prepare the rope.  How are
your ears?  Better I hope.
Is Florence as faithful a

a visit to you, you may be sure.  I think there is a 
chance of our coming,
Your Betrothed.


OFFICE OF
The Woman's Journal,
No. 3 TREMONT PLACE,
Harrison Sq.
[Boston,] March 19 1871
Dear Betrothed
I have got accquainted with a 
girl who lives in the next
house to us.  Her father and one
brother are in New Orleans,
and her mother and the other
brothers live here.  Their establishment 
is worth a hundred
Thousand dollars, and is the
most beautiful place I ever
saw; or one of them.  They
have green houses, and all
sorts of things, but the girl, who
is named Maria Mansfield,
is deaf, and has something
the matter with her mind;
not crazy, but weak.  She is
taller than I am, yet does not
know how old she is.  She

in front of the hen, trying to screw my courage up
to the 
sticking 
point.likes to talk, and be played
with, but her words tumble
over one another in such a 
way that it is hard to understand 
her.  Mrs. Mansfield is
glad to have us accquainted,
as her daughter has not many
friends, and we get on very well
together.  I counted the trees
on our grounds the other day,
and found there were a hundred
and sixty two.  Mama was astonished 
at finding there were
so  many.  We have been looking 
for Papa, as the Tennesee and
commissioners have got home,
but perhaps he will come in
the Tybee instead, and be here
some time later.  I am writing--
(this is private) a story, to have
ready for Florence when she
comes to see me, and she is 
expected to produce one also.

[*Then I shut my eyes, make a vigorous grab at the*]
[*hen, pull her off, and run away with all possible*]

I hide mine under the beams in
the garret, as Mama has a fancy
for reading what I write, and
I don't want her to see it.
You are not to tell any body I
am doing it, on pain of death.
Our crocuses are coming up, but
we have not flowers on them
yet.  You are a wretch to threaten
to run away with a sea
captain, and I shall suddenly
appear at Burwood place and
castigate you.  Your stomach
shall certainly be rubbed
when I come across the ocean.
We have had a crazy man,
named Phocious Fisk, here,
visiting.  He was born[e] in
Greece, and he refuses to be called
by his fathers name, which is
Gonzales, or some such thing,
because he thinks his father
treated him very badly in

expedition. Then I come back, take the eggs, and go into the 
house.  Goodbye.  Alice.

bringing him into the world
without first asking his consent.  He
was very queer; talked about
John Brown, his own cats, and
all sorts of thing.  It is agravating 
that your weekly letter
always comes just a day or
two after I have sent off mine,
so that I have to wait a whole 
week to answer it.
I am to act in some dramatics
which Mr. Theodore Weld is 
getting up among my schoolmates,
and am to appear as a boy.
One of my hens is setting,
and two others want to so
that I have to exercise
my courage every day by 
pulling them off the nests,
for I am mortally afraid
of a setting hen.  I proceed
in the following manner.  First,
I put on a pair of thick leather
gloves to protect me from pecks; then
I stand for half an hour or so

OFFICE OF
The Woman's Journal
No. 3 Tremont Place,
H.S., April 9 1871
Dear Kitty
Are you sick or are you
faithless, or have your eyes
given out?  If faithless,
beware of the rope!  Your
weekly letters are not weekly 
any longer, and I fear
you are tired of your share
in the correspondence.
There is some nice land 
right by ours which Mama 
wants Papa to buy, and 
keep for Aunt Elizabeth
when you and she come
home.  It is nice high land,
with a fine prospect, and
perhaps he will do it.
Yesterday it was like a
dog day; we were all roasting, 
and the thermometerstood at 82 in the shade.
Today it is raw and misty,
and the thermometer is 39.
It is the sea breeze which
came up in the evening,
bringing the mist and cooling 
us all.  Papa means to
abolish the Carter institution
as we call our very bad smelling
privy, and make an earth 
closet.  I am not very well 
just now; I have begun 
part of my lessons again,
and back came my
headaches again, and when 
Mama had driven them away
with magnetism they did 
not come back -- perhaps
because I am having four
days holiday, on account of
good Friday, fast day, and 
easter all at once, but I
have been feeling as limp
as a washed out rag.

They have threatened me
with tincture of rhubarb,
but as I protested that I 
couldn't, wouldn't, and 
shouldn't take it -- in fact
that I would thow it out
of the window if they brought
it to me, they have decided
on a sedlitz powder every
morning.  I took the first
today, and feel better.  I
have got acquainted with a 
young lady named Alice
Erle, who is a schoolmate
of mine, and a relation of
Lucretia Motts.  She is a
sort of half Quaker -- says
thee and thy, [which I am 
trying to do also, for her benefit] 
and wears sober colored
dresses, fashionably made,
with bright neck ribbons
and so forth, but does not
believe in high heeled shoes orcorsets.  She seems to have some
sense in her head, and not to 
be ashamed of it.  She is tall,
dark, and handsome, and looks
rather like a turk.  I think I
told you Papa got home from
Santo Domingo, bringing all
sorts of curiosities and lovely
shells.  Part of his luggage
went off to Charleston with 
the Commissioners, and he
has not had his clothes washed
once since he started.  For
times they went to the wash;
thrice they were brought back
untouched when he had suddenly
to start off, and the fourth 
time they were half done.  You
may imagine how dirty he
was, and how tanned, but
he looked healthier, a good
deal, than when he left.  He 
rode three hundred miles on

OFFICE OF
The Woman's Journal,
No. 3 Tremont Place,
Boston, June 18th 1871
Dear Betrothed;
I sent you no letter last
week, as we were out of paper,
but will send a long one now
to make up.  In your last letter
you mention the rope, but you 
need not threaten me with it 
just yet, though the girls do
call me Alice Earle's devoted
lover.  She knows I am engaged,
I believe, and I suspect her
of being, though she has not 
confessed.  School has ended,
Nelly has gone home, and I am
left to languish till Florence
appears.  Thinking you will
like to hear of Captain Kidd,
sweet pirate, I send this,
copied from the Young Folks.

**glad when they call her go, at exciting moments.**

John Brooke dies which is abominable.  Goodbye.

You are supposed to be one
of the figures in parleys wax
works, and are thus described.
"Captain Kidd, the robber
of the main, supposed to 
have originated somewhere
down East.  His whole life
being spent upon the stormy
deep, he amassed an immense
fortune and buried it in the 
sand along the flower clad
banks of Cape Cod, by which
course he invented the
Savings-Banks, now so common
along shore.  Having hidden
away so much property,
which, like many modern investments, 
never can be unearthed, 
he was known as a
great sea-cretur.  Before 
him, kneels his lovely and
innocent victim, the Lady

Blousabella Infantina, who
was several times taken and
murdered by the bloody thirsty
tyrant, which accounts for
the calm look of resignation
depicted upon her lovely countenance."  
Kitty! (Kiddy, I
should rather say) is it 
not possible I might
have been Lady B. I. and 
my rubbing your stomach
merely a serving out of
you for your former
ill-usage?
Our girl Betsey has gone
away, and we have an
old woman instead, who
calls curds and whey junkets.
It is nearly warm enough
to go in bathing now; I was 
to have had a dip the other
day, but it rained.

Thy Betrothed.Papa and Mama have bought
a young pig, but it gets
into corners, and I have 
not seen it yet.  It is a
damp, stormy day, and we have 
a fire in the grate.  A fire in
the grate in the middle of
June!  The other day I missed
the train I was to have come
from Boston on, and when 
I got home I found that
Papa and Mama were off
telegraphing for me all
over the country, thinking
I had taken the New York
train by mistake, and
been carried on to Taunton.
Papa did not get home till
late at night.  There are some
insects which are making
great trouble among the

OFFICE OF
The Woman's Journal,
No. 3 Tremont Place,
Boston, July 1871
Dear Kitty;
while I lived at New York
you owned two music books
full of scotch songs; large,
uncommon looking music books.
If you have them with you
now, I wish you would look 
through the for the song
beginning
"Far over yon hills of the heather
so green, 
And down by the corrie that
sings to the sea,
The lovely young Flora sat sighing 
her lane,
The dew on her plaid, and the 
tear in her ee.
She looked at a boat with the 
breezes that swung,

If you know the names of those same music booksof Scoth songs, please tell me in the next letter.

Away on the wave like a bird
of the main,
And, aye as it lessened, she
sighed and she sung,
Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er
see again."
I think it is called Flora 
McDonald's Lament.  If you 
can find it please copy it. 
out, and sent it to me.  I 
saw some verses of it in the
History of the Rebellion in
Scotland; the Adventures of 
the Chevalier Charles Stuart,
and liked it so much I am 
anxious to get the whole.
I shall be fourteen in less
than three months, and expect
you to wish we many happy
returns.  We shall then have
been engaged ten years!
Florence and Gracie are 
expected to spend the Summer

here; possibly Edie.
Today I upset an inkstand,
thereby spoiling one of my 
best wrappers, soiling the drugget,
ruining a letter or two, and
sending Mama into the 
blues.  
I have lately taken to
the habits of my ancestors
the monkeys, and spend a 
good deal of my time in
the tree tops, gathering cherries
for canning.  We have
some cherries here which
Papa says are the best
he ever tasted in New England.
He is in New York now on 
some business affairs, I suppose.  
I enclose a letter of
Aunt Ellens, which I think
you will like to see, as it
has in it a good deal

as I should like to buy them for myself, or get**Papa or Mama to.  Goodbye.  A.S.B.**

about the babys, hers and 
Aunt Emilys, though for
anything I know they may 
have written to you all that
and more.
I am glad school is over
and I dont have to take
anything but music lessons,
for I think studying in 
hot weather is detestable.
I wish I knew how to 
wring your heart with
jealousy, but unfortunately
there are no young gentlemen
here abouts, none I know, at
least.  Goodbye, my dear Pirate.
Alice S. Blackwell.

OFFICE OF
The Woman's Journal
No. 3 Tremont Place,
Boston, Aug. 14th 1871
Dear Kitty
I know I am a faithless
correspondent, but the 
only excuse I have is that
what with Florence, and
what with Mrs. and Mr.
Spofford, and their little
Florence, and what with
dysentery, and what with
showing Florence the sights
of Boston, and what with
Mama's birthday, I have
been very busy.  The Spoffords
are going to leave today,
and I will truly try to
do better hence forward.
We have been in bathing
nearly every day, and
Florence has begun to

**ash, which is covered with most beautiful**
red clusters of berries.  I wish you would

swim the littlest
of little bits, while I feel
like quite an old stager
in comparison.  Gracie
is here also, and the house 
has been so crowded that
Florence shares my room;
now that the Spoffords are
going, though, she will 
have the spare room.  I 
think there are some other
faithless individuals
besides myself; one upon
the other side the water.
Kitty! remember the rope!
We have apples and pears
now from our own trees,
blackberries from our 
vines, corn from our
corn patch, milk from our
cow, and jewel of a 
servant girl, who turns

them into the most delightful 
kinds of pie
and pudding.
Yesterday was Mama's
fifty-third birthday, and
Papa gave out that she 
was seventeen.  Wasn't
that an idea?
I am writing this because 
Florence has
written one, and I don't
mean to have you say
she is a better correspondent 
than I am.
I suppose Aunts
Emily and Ellen will
be coming up here before 
long, but it is decided
that we shall be 
spared the baby.
I made an attempt
to give Gracie a music

try and find the cost of those music
lesson yesterday, but 
I do believe her fingers
have no joints in them.
It will be a task to 
keep her amused after
little Florence Spofford
goes.  We have a kitten
though, which I suppose
will help.  It is a dear
little black thing which
follows me like a dog.
I wanted to name it
Tophet Appolyon, but 
Mamma would not 
let me, so I change the
name to Toby.
We have a mountain

books, for I am bound to have them

if they cost anything less
than twenty dollars.
If you have never
read a story called
Westward Ho, or the
Adventures of Sir Amyas
Leigh, by Charles Kingly,
I wish you would do it
as soon as you get home 
from Cornwall.  I am sure
you will like it.
I am learning Welsh
at a galloping pace, from
Websters dictionary, but 
I dont know how to pronounce 
it.  I have not
yet answered Uncle Georges
letter, and I am ashamed
of myself, but I really 
have a great deal to 
do.  Please excuse past "Sins
of Omission."  Goodbye.

Your Betrothed Bride.Aug. 14--
The Spoffords left this
morning and now we look for
Marian and Emily.  We have
all been intending to send
Geo a letter-But I have been
managing help, and Hary just
now, has the editorial care of the
Woman's Journal-and we have
all been rather crowded with
occupation.  Not the less, are we
glad to hear from all of you.
We find our summer home very
pleasant.  Every body praises it, and
Hary says he is glad we have got it.
There is great demand for New
Jersey land.  Mr. Andrews sold a bit
of land joining mine at the rate
of $2,500? per acre.  So I have a fortune
there, if nothing happens-Dr. Elizabeth 
sold her land, just too early.
The last word from the N. Yorkers is
that they are well--Sam's ditto.  Nettie
taking [?] play and Gracie do nicely
with us-Gracie follows me around
like a cat with a small whine
in her voice, but satisfied to be
following.  We are all well.  No news.
Love to All Lucy

OFFICE OF
The Woman's Journal
No. 3 Tremont Place,
Boston, Aug 1871
Dear Betrothed
I have been sick in bed
with dysentery, and am
still kept from eating any-
thing nice, as a smatter of
precaution.
Florence has been here 
about a week, with Gracie.
Mr. Spofford came day before
yesterday, but none of his
folks.  Mrs. S. and little
Florence are expected, but
the boys will not come
at all.  At present Papa
and Mr. Spofford are
out fishing, and no one
knows when they will get
home.
Florence is decidedly
fat, but she has let her

**shall eagerly expect it, so dont forget.I have been reading a book called The

hair grow, and it is
beautiful.
I am learning
Welsh rapidly, from
Websters dictionary.  it
refers to welsh words, when 
they are like the English 
at all.
I received a long
letter from Uncle George
while I was spending a
week at Gardner, to my
great astonishment, for I 
had given him no provocation.  
It contained a
portrait of Fanny Rogers,
as she appeared in Welsh
costume, drawn by Uncle G.
He says she would not
feel flattered by it, if she
saw it.  It is indeed hideously 
ugly.  Neither do I

admire the Welsh costume.
I read in the paper
a petition to change the
 name of Orange to something 
else, because the 
Irish inhabitants thereof
consided it disagreeable
and insulting, and want 
it called Limerick or
O'Connel.  Mama thinks
it was meant for a
joke, but I dont know.
Florence has an
imposing looking journal,
in which she writes lots,
quite putting mine to
shame, and wont let
me read it, because of 
secrets supposed to be
therein recorded.
I am writing this 
under the immediate

**Scottish Chiefs.  it is a life of Sir William****Wallace in two volumes.  Perhaps you would
like to read it.  Goodbye.  Alice.**

stimulus of your letter of 
July 23rd, which I got
a little while ago.  I dont
dare to stop to get a better
pen than this vile one,
lest the literary fever
should die down.  I do
see the ocean steamers
go in and out, and 
from the housetop have
counted sixteen church
steeples.  Probably I could 
have found more with 
a telescope and much
care.
You say you will 
send you journal by
Uncle George, and I 

OFFICE OF
The Woman's Journal,
No. 3 Tremont Place
Boston, Oct. 12 1871
Miss Barry
I find from 
a letter of Uncle
Sams that your
diary is to be sent
first to Aunt
Emily, second to 
Florence, and last
of all to your
Betrothed!!!
Perfidious creature!
How do I know but
Florence has been
privately directed to
tear out all references
to a certain charming
young Englishman,
and sent it on
to me minus?

**The accompanying letters were today returned from the
London P.O. for lack of proper direction.
L.S.**
Oh, Kitty, in my hours
of ease
So charming, sweet,
and sure to please
When jealous anguish
twists my brow
A veritable scoundrel
thou!!
Reflect upon
that, and remeber
that you do not
deserve original
poetry, and must
therefore must
put up with a
variation of someone
elses. I shall
keep this to send on
my regular letter day,
as I dont wish to
waste more letters
than nescessary on
a faithless being.
[*All well*]

Office of
The Woman's Journal
No. 3 Tremont Place,
Boston, Oct. 15th 1874
Dear Kitty
Excuse bad writing, for
I am holding the
pen according to the
most approved and
inconvenient manner.
I am studying Scotch,
under the direction of
our girl, whose name
is Annie Mac Cloud,
and who is young, pretty,
and, as she says, "Scotch
to the back bone." I
expect I shall astonish
the natives by my fluency,
when we make our
bridal tour through
Scotland. I can already
say Goodmorning and
[*of any other kind of fruit. Goodbye. Alice, thy
Betrothed, thou
Monster of a
Pirate!*]goodbye, and call my
kitten in Gaelic, doubtless
to the wild amazement
of that intelligent little
beast. Annie speaks
Scotch better than
English. I only hope she
will stay with us.
Mary Hooper is
here, acting as house keeper,
and elder sister generally.
I like her as much
as ever.
I have been
made monitress over
the female portion
of my class, and
may now put a handle
to my name. You will
be marrying an august
personage, for to be
monitor is a sign that
one has passed ones examination

best of the girls
in ones class.
I send along with
this a thunderbolt which
I composed under
a sense of extreme
injury. Read it, ponder
it, and amend your 
ways!
We have had
such winds here as you
might call hurricanes
during the last few
days, and one is roaring
outside the window
now. Your last letter
sent me into a phrenzy
of jealousy, for it
named at least four
unmarried male beings.
There is no particular
news, except that 
I have commencedstudying grammar, and
dont like it. I only took
it at all because I am
determined to beat George
Cook at lessons, and show
him whether a girl is not
as good as a boy, for
all his remarks about
Womans Rights. I should
have beaten him at the
last examination but
for that grammar.
Mary Hooper brought
with her our Roseville
ivy plants, one, you know,
which grew in the parlor,
and the other on the
side next to Mrs. Marratt.
We have grapes and
pears now, but not much

apple trees up this way, 
leaving whole orchards without
a speck of green on the
trees, and ours are beginning
to show signs of them.
We often go up onto the
top of the house to see the
sun set, but we never manage
to see it rise, because
Papa is so lazy. He is in
trouble with carbuncles on
his hands now, so we have
hardly the heart to rout
him up, but let him sleep.
He had a bad one on his
little finger, which is getting
well, and another coming
on the other hand.
I am taking music lessons
twice a week, of Miss Nina
Moore, my drawing teachers
daughter, who teaches me to
hold my hands exactlyin the opposite way from what
Aunt Ellen taught.
We eat cherries of our own
now. Aunt Emily wants to 
bring her baby here this
Summer, and we shall
put it in the "clutter room,"
as we call a little one away
off next the back chamber,
as we dread its squalls.
It has taken some time to
finish this letter, and you
will get it late, but its
length must excuse it.
Little Men, the third volume 
of Little Women, has come 
out, and is very nice. Nelly
Hooper made me a present of
it. I dont like to have them
call Jo Mrs. Bhaer, or Mrs. Jo,
or even Aunt Jo, and am

Nov. 26th, 1871
Cathleen Mavourneen
If you could look in upon us
now, and see three unprotected
females, Mary Hooper, Annie McLeod
and Alice Kidd (?) were we married
or not? Not, I believe, only betrothed, deserted by
our natural protectors, who are
away on a three weeks spree, your
piratical nature would incline you
to make a descent on us, and
forcibly posess yourself of your
bride. I wish you could!
Tomorrow our monthly examinations
begin, and in a week it will be
decided whether I shall still be
Monitor or not. You say you used
to dread your turn to officiate in
that character; my turn to do so
comes three times a day! Think
of that! We have had two snowstorms
here, but it only lasts long
enough to give those fiends incarnate
at school a chance
to break our bones with balls.
[*ment now and think I am sorry to say*]and then melts away, leaving mud.
As for Florences 
Christmas presents, I must answer,
as you did to Uncle George,
"Personal Ornaments," for I can
think of nothing else except
kid gloves, who would be an appropriate 
present from Captain
Ditto.

If you are in want of
something to read, I recommend
George MacDonald's stories.  Try 
David Elginbrod first, and if 
it strikes you at all as it did me,
you will take Robert Falkner
next.  Mary Hooper and I 
sympath[??] in admiring them, though
we disagree on many matters;
especially keeping Sunday.
My proceedings on that day horrify
her, and hers horrify Annie,
who is the strictest girl in that
respect I ever came across, though
she breaks the ninth commandment
[*I can't well give you an ode being very busy
and write and so this kind of paper
because the other sort is used up. But to desert me
for a baby is the worst,  Barbarous being
of all "the wicked things you did."  Goodbye.
A. S. B.*]
            Nov. 26th 1871
Cathleen Mavourneen
If you could look in upon us
now, and see three unprotected
females, Mary Hooper, Annie McLeod
and Alice Kidd (?) were we married 
or not? Not, I believe, only betrothed deserted
by our natural protecters, who are
away on a three weeks spree, your
piratical nature would incline you
to make a descent on us, and
forcibly posess yourself of your
bride. I wish you could!
Tomorrow our monthly examinations
begin, and in a week it will be
decided whether I shall still be 
Monitor or not. You say you used
to dread your turn to officiate in
that character; my turn to do so
comes three times a day! Think 
of that! We have had two snowstorms
here, but it only lasts long
enough to give those fiends incarnate
at school a chance
to break our bones with balls.

on side: 
ment now and then; I am sorry to say.

OFFICE OF
The Woman's Journal,
No. 3 TREMONT PLACE
Boston 1871

Dear Betrothed
I meant to have written
yesterday (Sunday) but
was very busy, and as
it could not have 
gone till this morning
you will get it as soon.
  I hope you are
enjoying your trip to
Cornwall, and will
write me an account
of all you see.
  Please thank Aunt
Elizabeth for her scraps,
and say it is quite
satisfactory.
  Aunt Emily and
Aunt Marian are here,
but no baby. If you

on side:
Whitney's We Girls. Please excuse the way the

see uncle George please
thank him for his
letter. I wish I could
screw myself up to 
answer it, but I
ought to have done
it so long ago that
I am ashamed.
  Florence and I play
croquet and paper dolls,
and Gracie flies about
at her own sweet will,
with my dolls, swarms 
of hornets with which 
she makes friends, besides
the occupation of hunting
eggs and ripe apples
under the trees.
  A thirteenth cousin
of mine, a Miss Alice
Matthews, has been 
spending a day or

last part of this letter is written for

two here, turning
Florence and me out
of our nice room
into a little back
hole; but thank goodness
she is going today.
Aunts Emily and 
Marian look just as
they used to, and act 
the same way too, though
it seems very odd to
have them here.
If you can reccomend
any agreeable novels,
especially Scotch ones,
with a little history
in them, or some 
ghost not too horrible
in its nature, I wish 
you would. We are
about to have a
fire made in the

Papa made me hold the paper in agrate; a fire on the
twenty first of August.
On the thirteenth, I
hung a wreath of evergreen
and mountain
ash berries on Mamas
door handle, for her
to find the next morning
when she came out; 
to do which I with
much difficulty
kept awake till after the
grown folks were in bed;
that was the night before; 
and to say I hung it on the
handle is not true, for I meant to,
but the door being open
had to lay it on the sill.
I gave her also Mrs.
[*way to which I am not used. Goodbye,
Thy [Conj?]*]