You know the little breezes that come in the dawn when we are camping, and bring us the first perfume of the waking day. Well, they are here just the same. Now they are directing a pretty flotilla of red petals from a poinsettia-tree across the road. They float over the bayonet hedge and scatter like rubies on the ground.
Speaking of bayonets reminds me, Harry Lamb had a nasty fall the other night. He was riding home when El Capitan shied at something in the road, and tumbled Harry into a bristling bayonet bush! He thought a band of Italians with stilettos was attacking him. He won't ride El Capitan again for quite a while, he prefers a chair with a soft cushion or his bed.
You know, Helen dear, Socrates believed in the existence of the Fortunate Isles somewhere beyond the blue zenith of our sky—isles which those who had lived in beauty sailed to after death. Well, I found one of the Fortunate Isles while still alive. Here I find freedom from the vexations of wars and politics and duties that have never interested me. This is the realm of warm delight—the land to which Ulysses and his companions came in the afternoon—the land of the lotus-eaters where it is always afternoon. Here is calm and contentment! I tremble when I think I must return to the north with its turmoil, its hypocrisies, its silly fads and sillier conventions.
Didn't I tell you that entering the World War was one of the high purposes Providence had in store for America? The Socialists—the intellectual variety—have behaved in all countries like the proverbial sheep. A few, a very few—Debs, Liebknecht, Jaures and Bertrand Russell (but they killed Jaures, and they will kill Liebknecht when he becomes a menace) have kept their heads. Hatred of Germany will soon transform their idealism into a hundred percent patriotism. I don't believe any of them have read Karl Marx, and if they have, they haven't a glimmering of what it means. Well, so be it; I feel no urge to enlighten them.
Love to everybody,