October 1882

The missing Maggie is much mourned, and I am going out for "black" to the nearest store.

All are very naughty, and I am naughtiest of all.

The pussies dine on sherry now, and humming-bird cutlets.

The invalid hen took dinner with me, but a hen like Dr. T[aylor]'s horse soon drove her away. I am very busy picking up stems and stamens as the hollyhocks leave their clothes around.

What shall I send my weary Maggie? Pillows or fresh brooks?

Her grieved Mistress.