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From the Newark Evening Star, July 18, 1914. By Edgar A. Guest.

I’m writing her a letter
    That I’m getting on all right,
That I’m really feeling better,
    And I’m full of vim and fight.
I’m telling her I’m working
    Every minute of the day,
And I have no time for shirking
    And I have no time to play.

I am telling her that nightly
    I am sitting round the home,
And that time is passing lightly,
    And I’ve no desire to roam.
I am telling her I’m hoping
    That a month or two they’ll stay
Where the hillsides green are sloping
    And the little ones can play.

I am glad they’re where the breezes
    Gently kiss them as they run,
And I’m telling her it pleases
    Me to think of all their fun.
And I write that I’m not lonely,
    But it’s all a fearful sham,
For they’d come back if they only
    Knew how miserable I am.

For I miss their sweet caresses
    And I miss their shouts of glee,
And the empty home depresses
    Now the very soul of me.
I miss the cry of “pappy”
    From each roguish little tot.
I am writing that I’m happy
    But I’ll bet she knows I’m not.

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