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Later "Dory Ann" wrote, taking "Bud" to task:

ought

DEAR BUD,-Do you know that you to get a whipping because you did not go to the Longfellow dinner? Aunt Edith was there and she brought me home the programme and where the guests sat and the menu and the best comes last-the best picture I have ever seen of Mr. Longfellow. No wonder he is called the "Children's Poet" because he has such a kind face. I think that you are like him because all the children love you. I am one. Of course you are not so old as Mr. Longfellow....

In this letter, as in most of them, "Dory Ann" begged the poet to come to New York for a visit. Perhaps the poet remained away for a purpose, knowing the illusion of "Bud" and "Dory Ann" could be maintained only if the grown man were not intruded.

Once the poet, who was having his troubles, wrote to ask the little girl for a cheering letter:

DEAR DORY ANN,Here is a 'tend-like letter from Bud, who is a-waiting here till his Publisher

gets back from luntch,

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where he must be a-eat- TWO PLAYMATES ing like a' Orphant-Child, he stays so long! As usual, Bud is behind

time with everything till it just seems he cain't never catch up again no more! And he's a confirmed hoodoo, everything he wants and tries to a-complish he just can't. So he thinks of hisse'f about like your Aunt thinks of him, that he's a-getting to be not a youngster no longer, but a real shore-'nuff "Oldster." And that's just what I 'spect he is! His friends, though, all tries to incurrage him, and says "He's all right, and the clouds is all got silver linings, and it's a long lane, and Onward Christian Soldier, and why don't he try Christian Science any

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stroke from which he only partially recovered. Because of his disabilility the poet could not write with his hand now, but he sent his letter and the usual Christmas box.

DEAR DORY ANN,-I got your good letter and am glad and proud of your ability as a letter writer as well as a sufferer and an invalid in your last possession of the malady of housemaid's knee. Like myself, you are gradually exhausting the ills that human Hesh is heir to, but I have the pleasure of attaining an attack beyond any affliction of yours, since my latest visitation is the rare affliction of bone-erysipelas of my immortal soul. And until you reach that you must acknowledge my superiority in especial suffering.

With best love and greetings to your mother and your Aunt Edith, I am Your faithful old friend

BUD.

And so went the letters back and forth, and the little girl grew up and age crept upon the loving poet who found it increasingly difficult to keep up with the letters. Reading these letters, written with care and thoughtful

remembrance of birthdays, Easters, and Christmases, just as the most devoted lover would remember his sweetheart, might lead one to forget that this was one of many whom he remembered, if not with letters, with thoughtful and fitting gifts. In words that revealed genuinely his devotion to the child ideal. Riley wrote:

Youth like Dory Ann's should not be curbed-in all truth her letters delight me and send the sometimes glowering clouds of age a-scuddin'! As you observe of the real rural scenes and people vanishing, "Life is being syndicated," and I think we ought to foster all the child elements of it in particular. Therefore I pray that full permission be granted to our ever blithe and youthful Dory Ann to write letters and draw pictures for my delectation forever and a day. She is of the only true Elect of earthly Joy. No yet overawing ambitions; no hopes beyond all hope of fulfillment; no dreams prohibited; no unavailable MSS. dead certain! At least, as Bud Riley estimates them. So tell her to write to me

and I'll write, though even now I owe her a letter; but very soon it shall be in her friendly hands.

THE

Brandon

BY ALICE DUER MILLER

'HE house is empty, and the garden alley,
A shadowed aisle of linden and of yew,
A marble vase, a glimpse of river-valley-
Translucent white against transparent blue—
A mystery of boxwood and of byway,
Beneath barred windows and unopened door,
And far below the river like a highway
Sweeps on, but brings no travelers any more.
Beauty alone is constant; where she chooses
A dwelling-place, there would she ever stay,
Fortune and friends and fashion though it loses,
Beauty more faithful does not pass away,
But most deserted, most herself she seems,
Left to her deep and solitary dreams.

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