Mulberry Grove, Ga.,
Aug. 4, 1888.

Here I am in the "land of cotton!" As I look out of my window, I see fields of cotton all around me. They say that the cotton of these Southern States is the finest in the world. It is much finer than that raised in India and China, which is yellow; or that of some other places, which is brown.

The harvest is ready, and the soft white cotton is being picked by the negroes. Just now I see their bright, black faces peeping

over the great baskets filled with their snowy loads.

We speak of the cotton plant: it is really more like a tree. Just think of a field of currant bushes planted in rows, and you will have some idea of it; though the bush sometimes grows seven feet high.

I enclose a pressed cotton blossom; it was yellow, spotted with purple, when I picked it.

The bolls which hold the cotton, open when ripe, and out puffs the soft white down. You would think that the bushes were covered with large white flowers. I have sent you a few bolls of cotton in a box, by mail. I picked them myself this morning.

If you look very closely, you will find little seeds all through the cotton. These seeds must be removed before the cotton is fit to be spun, or woven into cloth. It was a long and difficult task to remove them, until Eli Whitney, in 1793, invented the cotton gin, a machine that takes the seeds out very easily and quickly.

I understand that these seeds are not the ones which are planted; there are others for that purpose. But how few things need go to waste! Why, these little seeds, ground and pressed, make fine oil; and what is left

after the oil is out, makes good food for cattle.

Here I sit in a cool, pretty muslin dress which I bought in Boston. It may be the cotton for it grew in this very field. I am writing a letter upon nice white paper; perhaps, the rags, from which the paper was made, contain cotton picked by the busy, black hands which are at work out there this moment.

Mulberry Grove was the home of Gen. Greene of the Revolution. Here, in 1786, the general died. Here, too, Eli Whitney, then a young teacher in the family of Widow Greene, invented the cotton gin. Here it was stolen from his shop by dishonest men.

Next week, we shall go to Florida. Then shall I send you a "dear little alligator” for a pet? I long to roam through the orange groves! Do you think they can be more pleasant than the dear old apple orchard at home?

I hope to hear from you when we reach St. John. I think papa's health is much better in this warm climate. Tell me all the home news, when you write.

With love to kind friends, and many wishes for your happiness,

I am your loving
SUSIE.

Painter, paint me a sycamore,

A spreading and snowy-limbed tree,
Making cool shelter for three,
And like a green quilt at the door
Of the cabin near the tree,
Picture the grass for me,

With a winding and dusty road before,
Not far from the group of three,
And the silver sycamore tree.

'Twill take your finest skill to draw,
From that happy group of three
Under the sycamore tree,

The little girl in the hat of straw,
And the faded frock; for she

Is as fair as fair can be.

You have painted frock and hat complete!

Now the color of snow, you must paint her feet;

Her cheek and lips from a strawberry

bed;

From sunflower-fringes her shining head.

Now, painter, paint the hop-vine swing Close to the group of three,

And a bird with bright brown eyes and wing,

Chirping merrily,

"Twit twit, twit twit, twee !" That is all the song he makes, And the child to mocking laughter breaks, Answering, "Here are we,

Father and mother and me!"

Pretty darling, her world is small,—
Father, and mother, and she, are all.

Ah, painter, your hand is still!

You have made the group of three
Under the sycamore tree,

But you cannot make all the skill
Of your colors say, "Twit twit, twee !"
Nor the answering, "Here are we,
Father and mother and me."

I'll be a poet, and paint with words
Talking children and chirping birds.

ALICE CARY.