Providence, RI, July 5, 1908
To J. L. Harrison; Princeton:

My Dearest J, — I was so proud to see the article about you in 
the local paper this past Sunday alongside a handsome, though 
small, picture of you. You have certainly made quite a name for 
yourself at Princeton and I could not be more proud. The picture 
was very well framed and it is so nice to be reminded of how you 
look since I so rarely get visits.

As you know, every morning I follow the same routine: I have my 
morning tonic, wait for the postman, then take the day's mail back 
to the parlor — or to the porch on days when the weather is kind 
— and begin my daily correspondence. But even with the letters 
from distant family, friends, and your very prolific brother, the 
pile seems empty without letters from my youngest.

Recently, a visiting salesman came by and sold me a brand new set 
of letterhead. The kindly man said this new paper has a nice heft, 
a pleasingly dimpled texture that more readily absorbs ink, and 
creases with sharp purpose. I immediately bought a package of it 
à grands frais and set it in the tray on my roll-top to use to 
write to you. I do sincerely hope that if your esteemed colleagues 
and friends see my letters they are impressed that you received 
them on such a formal and elegant stationary. You can then declare 
that your mother thinks enough of you to use the very best paper 
and that she takes supreme care in the form and style of her 
cursive. Her other missives will seem to have been merely a port 
de bras of penmanship! A mother can dream, can she not?

Meeting with my Sunday brunch group has been difficult of late. My 
bragging six irons are running dry! All I am able to tell them are 
quotes that I find in the articles they write about you or in the 
newsletters from Princeton. Last week I thought they were 
beginning to get suspicious after I had told them about your new 
class for the fourth time, save for Anabelle for whom the sun in 
the sky is new revelation every morning and the moon every night. 
You remember Anabelle's son Jeremiah? You used to play together 
and I would make you freshly squeezed lemonade during the hot 
summers.

The wonderful vignette in our town rag will give me a few more 
petits contes to make the Sunday troupe jealous, but please write 
soon. My delicate and frail spirit cannot take more days empty of 
your post.

Your ever loving mother

P.S. – The salesman was right – the paper creases very neatly. 
I desperately hope to use it more often.

.