I've only just come and I'm not unpacked, but I can't wait to tell you
how much I like farms. This is a heavenly, heavenly, HEAVENLY spot!
The house is square like this: And OLD. A hundred years or so.
It has a veranda on the side which I can't draw and a sweet porch
in front. The picture really doesn't do it justice--those things
that look like feather dusters are maple trees, and the prickly ones
that border the drive are murmuring pines and hemlocks. It stands
on the top of a hill and looks way off over miles of green meadows
to another line of hills.

That is the way Connecticut goes, in a series of Marcelle waves;
and Lock Willow Farm is just on the crest of one wave. The barns
used to be across the road where they obstructed the view, but a kind
flash of lightning came from heaven and burnt them down.

The people are Mr. and Mrs. Semple and a hired girl and two hired men.
The hired people eat in the kitchen, and the Semples and Judy
in the dining-room. We had ham and eggs and biscuits and honey
and jelly-cake and pie and pickles and cheese and tea for supper--
and a great deal of conversation. I have never been so entertaining
in my life; everything I say appears to be funny. I suppose it is,
because I've never been in the country before, and my questions are
backed by an all-inclusive ignorance.

The room marked with a cross is not where the murder was committed,
but the one that I occupy. It's big and square and empty,
with adorable old-fashioned furniture and windows that have to
be propped up on sticks and green shades trimmed with gold that
fall down if you touch them. And a big square mahogany table--