a wet summer since the flood.
We have had this week new potatoes for the table, corn and beans, and a few tomatoes are ripening.
My flowers are doing finely; my heliotrope is magnificent, and portulaccas begin to make a show.
I have a gentleman from Cork now living under my roof, who is engaged in draining the pasture; and the monotony was enlivened the other night by an Italian with images to sell, who spent the night in my barn and refreshed the Ashland air with the classic accents of Tuscany.
His home was Florence.
Ade;, from your affectionate brother.
During the first years he did not suffer from the isolation of his life, but by degrees it preyed upon his spirits and his health.
In the long evenings his fireside was lonely.
Although his walls were hung with pictures and mementos of home and travel, and his shelves filled with his favorite authors, their silent voices failed to give him the companionship he craved.
If he had been married, the daily labors of the farm