about March 1878?
With it, I enclose Love's "remainder biscuit," somewhat scorched perhaps in baking, but "Love's oven is warm." Forgive the base proportions.
The fairer ones were borne away. The canna was a privilege, the little box a bliss, and the blossoms so real a fly waylaid them, but I lured him away.
Again receive the love which comes without aspect, and without herald goes.