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I am doing very well now, and shall go out tomorrow if it is fine. Your
warm-hearted telegram and the beautiful telegram
rose-tree you sent me did a lot to cheer me up. (I
still write rather un-steadily, as you see.) But I've stayed obediently in
my bed, sleeping a great deal and reading quiet, steady things like "The Last Puritan"3. Santayana4 has long been a favorite of mine, though of course
his technical books, like "The Realm of
Matter"5 are too deep for me. I'm sure you would love his "Soliloquies In England"6—try that book!
I'd love to follow up your telegram—right to the place it started from and join you in Pasadena7. But somehow I never can get away from New York2 in the winter or spring. After devoting three months to training a very competent but stubborn Swede, I let her go—they are too mechanical—"goose foot". I'll never replace Josephine8. Even her letters are delightful, and so gay! She did always long for her own Pyrenees. She writes "J'ai ne plus mon visage jaune, j'ai des rosy cheeks!"9
What a good friend you are to want me to come to Green Fountains10 when I'm even poorer company than
usual. But even the thought of it set me up, so (sometimes a sudden thought of a place is a kind of escape,
you know) so your loving impulse was not wasted. And now I shall go to bed,
and perhaps dream that I am there!