My dear Margaret,
Here it is summertime, and the birds are singing and the flowers are blooming and the bees making honey, and we haven’t been fishing yet. Well, there is only one more month till July, and then we will go, and no mistake. I thought you might write and tell me about the high water round Pittsburgh sometime ago, and whether it came up to where you live or not…
I would like very much to hear from you oftener; it has been more than a month now since you wrote. Write soon and tell me how you are, and when school will be out, for we want plenty of holidays in July, so we can have a good time. I am going to send you something nice the last day of this week. What do you guess it will be?
(This is a letter written by American short story writer O. Henry to his daughter Margaret.)
My dear Fanny,
I had a slight return of fever last night, which terminated favorably, and I am now tolerably well, though week from the small quantity of food to which I am obliged to confine myself: I am sure a mouse would starve upon it. Mrs. Wylie came yesterday. I have a very pleasant room for a sick person. A sofa bed is made up for me in the front parlor which looks on to the grass plot. How much more comfortable than a dull room upstairs, where one gets tired of the pattern of the bed curtains! Besides I see all that passes – for instance now, this morning – if I had been in my own room I should not have seen the coals brought in. On Sunday between the hours of twelve and one I descried a Pot boy. Then goes by a fellow with a wooden clock under his arm that strikes a hundred and more. Then comes the old French emigrant with his hands joined behind on his hips, and his face full of political schemes. Then passes Mr David Lewis, a very good natured, good-looking old gentleman, who has been very kind to Tom and George and me. As for those fellows the Brick makers they are always passing to and fro. I must not forget the two old maiden Ladies in Well Walk who have a Lap dog between them that they are very anxious about. It is a corpulent little beast whom it is necessary to coax along with an ivory-tipp’d cane. Carlo our neighbor Mrs. Brawn’s dog and it meet sometimes. Lappy thinks Carlo a devil of a fellow and so do his mistresses. You shall hear from me again the day after tomorrow.
This is a letter written by famous English poet John Keats to Fanny Brawne whom he wanted to marry but could not due to his illness.
305, XXX House
XXX of yy
June 29, 2014
My dear Mummy and Daddy
Many thanks for your letter which arrived this morning. Sorry, I have not been writing as regularly as I should.
The fact is I have started cooking my own food here. It is much cheaper than the Hostel food and sometimes even better. There is a kitchenette next to my room. Breakfast – porridge, eggs and coffee – can be prepared in about 10 minutes and there is always some bread and cheese and fruit to go with it. Lunch takes about the same time. And the most it takes to prepare a good dinner is less than an hour. And part of the time you can be watching TV in the next room. So it is no trouble at all. Moreover, I have teamed up with a friend of mine, so we share the work, which makes it much easier.
Do send some recipes – for frying fish, cutlets and so on. We can get real good minced meat here and all the spices and very fine rice. So we can make anything we want.
There are lots of Indians at the International House this year. The latest to come is one from Bangalore who is working for his Doctorate in Geophysics. During the Xmas-New Year break we were invited by several Indian families here. So we went out and ate a lot. And we called all the Indian families over. I cooked Kheema for forty people. And it was perfectly edible. You don’t believe it? Well …
How is everybody at home? Ask Tina to write to me unless she is too busy cutting up corpses in the Medical College.
Your Affectionate son