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#1114: Willa Cather to Helen McNeny Sprague, June 24 [1932]

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⬩W⬩S⬩C⬩ My Dear Helen1;

I've been wanting for a long while to write to you, but you know a writer's friends are the last served, like cobblers' children. Of course I want to hear all about the baby3; his name, and who he looks like. I was so glad for all of you when he arrived, well and husky. Is he a lot of fun as well as a "responsibility"? I hope so. My father4 and mother5 made a mere plaything of me, I remember, and it did not kill me.

The Lindbergh horror6 goes on from worse to worst. Just a year ago they7 were telling me all about their new house and how happy they were going to be in it, and how they were sure people would let them alone and not torment them there because the region was so unattractive. Any place would be attractive to them, they said, where they would be let alone to live like other people. They didn't ask for anything exceptional—and this is what they get! I think that man Curtis8 was the vilest of all their tormentors. How he could go on deceiving that desperate and rather unsophisticated young man! Anne would have seen through that crook, I'm sure, if she hadn't been ill and shut up in the house.

I've been for two weeks in our9 funny little home on this soft, flowery island, with no sounds but the wind and the fog horn. Twenty three huge ice bergs have broken loose south of Greenland10—the ocean liners have changed their course, and the cold wind off that ice has been blowing in on us across the open sea, bringing a lot of fog that moves very swiftly over us. My love to all of you, my dear, and please write me about the baby—a character sketch!

Affectionately always Willa Cather