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54 rues des St P. Paris Wednesday Sep 23 '74 3 P.M. What pleasure it is to sit down in your quiet little room some pleasant anniversary to open the old trunk which lets escape a flood of [[strikethrough]] ple [[/strikethrough]] agreeable odors recalling so vividly past days at home or at boarding school, lifting out the drawer you see stowed away in one corner by the side of the comfortable winter under clothing packages of stamped and pocket worn letters tied up with bits of knotted string some are addressed in a delicate hand on envelopes of equally delicate size and color: in the corner of each of these is carefully written the date of its reply. by the side of this dear little parcle is another of sterner size and applesauce addressed in a strong and characteristic inscription. around this latter hover recollections of the tender care and encouraging council of my father and seen like the stepping stones of life with out which I should long time have been submerged in the currents of doubt of uncertainty of dis couragement which constantly dash their giddy tempting waters on every side. But today is my birthday and the past few anniversaries have been made doubly dear by some pleasant association, so I have not drawn my easy chair into my little room and opened my trunk to call out of it good resolutions and advice however beneficial for me that might be on this the commencement of my twenty second year. No the rain is pattering softly on the tiles (who ever heard of its raining on my birth day in America?) and the dull rumble of the carriages is heard far off down on the stones only an active fly who has been caught outdoors with out an umbrella has dropped into my open window to make explorations, everything but this noisy little chap seems to be calculated to carry me back to golden september days gone by, so I take up one of the delicately inscribed packages and soon I am far away in the past driving among the brightly colored trees and fields of my home and