Uncle wrote that you were Dr. W.'s pet teacher, and every one loved you
dearly. But if you are not well, don't stay. Come home, and be
cuddled by your old
Lu.
_Pinckney Street, Boston_, January 1, 1855.--The principal event of the
winter is the appearance of my book "Flower Fables." An edition of
sixteen hundred. It has sold very well, and people seem to like it. I
feel quite proud that the little tales that I wrote for Ellen E. when I
was sixteen should now bring money and fame.
I will put in some of the notices as "varieties," mothers are always
foolish over their first-born.
Miss Wealthy Stevens paid for the book, and I received $32.
[A pleasing contrast to the receipts of six months only, in 1886, being
$8,000 for the sale of books, and no new one; but I was prouder over
the $32 than the $8,000.--L. M. A., 1886.]
_April_, 1855.--I am in the garret with my papers round me, and a pile
of apples to eat while I write my journal, plan stories, and enjoy the
patter of rain on the roof, in peace and quiet.
[Jo in the garret.--L. M. A.]
Being behindhand, as usual, I'll make note of the main events up to
date, for I don't waste ink in poetry and pages of rubbish now.
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