After dinner, now, seated out in an arm chair under the tree, the grass below, & the good breeze laving me, I have just read (& reread) the three letters, yours & Herby's & Mr Carpenter's—sweet, & welcome & bracing all of them somehow1—
Yes, dear friend, I will be up by Thursday evening, in time for tea, if nothing happens—Count much on seeing you all, & the cluster of friends—May-be while there are so many with you I had better sleep over in Camden, & Herby & Mr Burroughs2 take my room & bed—but we will see when I come—the days I shall surely be there—
Love to you, Herby & the girls—& to John Burroughs & Mr Carpenter3 if they get there before me— W WHerby, to-day is cloudy & threatening here though no rain yet—(I shouldn't wonder if Mr Stafford's prophecy ab't the week proved true)—You ought to have been here yesterday & be here to-day for one thing—we have oceans of delicious strawberries most every meal—
(The camp-out project in Aug: with J[ohn] B[urroughs] is magnificent4—O that I were well & hardy enough, to go with you—but it is out of the question)—