Original Letter

[This is scrawled across the top of the page:]

I remember that I was going to write something on the other side the time I put “P.T.O” on but I can’t remember what it was. No wonder you didn’t like it. Ross


            France. Feby 28th 1918

My Dearest Own Maidie:–

I have had a letter to-day! I can scarcely contain my “whoops” I’m so pleased with it. It may be – as you say to-day – an effort for you to write letters but I swear one would never dream it from reading them. They are just the easiest, smooth running lovingest letters and each one is or seems to be better than the last.

To-day for luck I got my first copy of “Land & Water”. Thanks ever so much Dearest, its just awfully good of you to send it to me. To-night I shall have a good wallow reading it. Apart from Hilaire Belloc’s article there is always good stuff in it – and I have always been missing it. You are the thoughtful lady – also you are my own Sweetheart and I adore you.

I am glad Madame “Rufie” and Babe liked their letters. I thought perhaps the rat story might be sort of “degoutant” but I am no nature fakir so I couldn’t use an elephant for instance. I am going to send Babe a card as soon as I get where there is a shop.

It is mighty pleasant here to-day. The window is open right at my elbow and the forest runs right up to the window. It has been a wonderful winter – there hasn’t been any unless we count the week at – I mean Christmas week. Even then it was only moderately snappy. To-morrow will be the 1st of March and it tells the tale, doesn’t it? If it is fine there is no more winter. Me, I am just as content to have it mild provided it is not muddy. If it is a choice between mud and frost, well I am for frost.

Of course everything I said or wrote Madame Ruthie was true and far more. I have kicked myself for not writing more. She is the grand little Arranger. And I cherish the notion that Hans Christian once dreamed of someone like her. Don’t you ever think my Dear, said he heatedly, that the love I have for my country takes away any from you. It isn’t that kind of love – its impersonal and, I expect, if you come right down to it there isn’t such a heluva much to it. At the same time its a cute little argument that she has produced and I must cry “Touché”. But you have every little last all bit of my love, Sweetheart, every bit and I could wish I were capable of more because you deserve all the love in the world. Would you take me in your arms now, Dearest, and love me a lot?

            Your own Ross


Ruthie: Ruth: Madame Ruthie: