Dear Wigleaf,

The weather is cool and health is good. Food is at 720 pounds, after a hunt that yielded five squirrels and one bison. But we have only two oxen left and Mother passed away of a snake bite early in the journey.

At night, I sit by the fire and drink sarsparilla, look at the stars. They look so clear; to think that they move as we move.

Wigleaf, we are getting closer to our destination, so close to you. There are almost no more miles to travel; there are no more rivers to ford.

When you meet us at the station, please wear your polka-dotted navy Sunday dress. And please wave your white hankerchief, so that as we make our slow approach, we may recognize you, so that we may know who to clasp, so that we may know we are here.



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Read LM's "Life Plans at 27."

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