In
front, the beautiful, grand St. John's stretches five miles from shore
to shore, and we watch the steamboats plying back and forth to the
great world we are out of. On all sides, large orange trees, with
their dense shade and ever-vivid green, shut out the sun so that we
can sit, and walk, and live in the open air. Our winter here is only
cool, bracing out-door weather, without snow. No month without flowers
blooming in the open air, and lettuce and peas in the garden. The
summer range is about 90°, but the sea-breezes keep the air
delightfully fresh. Generally we go North, however, for three months
of summer. Well, I did not mean to run on about Florida, but the
subject runs away with me, and I want you to visit us in spirit if not
personally.
My poor rabbi!--he sends you some Arabic, which I fear you cannot
read: on diablerie he is up to his ears in knowledge, having read all
things in all tongues, from the Talmud down. . . .
Ever lovingly yours,
H. B. STOWE.
BOSTON, _September_ 26, 1872.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I think when you see my name again so soon, you will
think it rains, hails, and snows notes from this quarter. Just now,
however, I am in this lovely, little nest in Boston, where dear Mrs.
Field, like a dove, "sits brooding on the charmed wave." We are both
wishing we had you here with us, and she has not received any answer
from you as yet in reply to the invitation you spoke of in your last
letter to me.
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