Letter 278 (late January 1863) - no ms. Louise and Frances Norcross lyrics

What shall I tell these darlings except that my father and mother are half their father and mother, and my home half theirs, whenever, and for as long as, they will. And sometimes a dearer thought than that creeps into my mind, but it is not for to-night. Wasn't dear papa so tired always after mamma went, and wasn't it almost sweet to think of the two together these new winter nights? The grief is our side, darlings, and the glad is theirs. Vinnie and I sit down to-night, while mother tells what makes us cry, though we know it is well and easy with uncle and papa, and only our part hurts. Mother tells us how gently he looked on all who looked at him - how he held his bouquet sweet, as he were a guest in a friend's parlor and must still do honor. The meek, mild gentleman who thought no hard, but peace toward all.

Vinnie intended to go, but the day was cold, and she wanted to keep Uncle Loring as she talked with him, always, instead of this new way. She thought too, for the crowd, she could not see you, children, and she would be another one to give others care. Mother said Mr. Vaill, yes dears, even Mr. Vaill, at whom we sometimes smile, talked about "Lorin' and Laviny" and his friendship towards them, to your father's guest. We won't smile at him any more now, will we? Perhaps he'll live to tell some gentleness of us, who made merry of him.

But never mind that now. When you have strength, tell us how it is, and what we may do for you, of comfort or of service. Be sure you crowd all others out, precious little cousins. Good night. Let Emily sing for you because she cannot pray,

        It is not dying hurts us so -
        'Tis living hurts us more.
        But dying is a different way,
        A kind, behind the door -
        The Southern custom of the bird
        That soon as frosts are due -
        Adopts a better latitude.
        We are the birds that stay
        The shiverers round farmers' doors.
        For whose reluctant crumb -
        We stipulate - till pitying snows
        Persuade our feathers Home.


                                                                                                      Emily.