You know, you’ve never mentioned your husband before. I suppose I knew you were married, being a “Mrs.” and all, but you’ve never talked about him. Funny, since we’ve talked about pretty much everything else.

Please keep me updated. I can read the reports in the newspaper, but, from way across the ocean, it’s hard to know what is really happening over there.

I’m here for you, David

Isle of Skye

4 October 1914


David,

Well, I’ve finally heard from Iain. His battalion is at a training camp in Bedford. He expects they’ll get called up any day, but I imagine most men say that. What else do they have aside from anticipation? It was a short letter, talking cheerfully of training and weapons and how they all hope to “get a few Huns.” Not a word of me or our home or the bairn I’d lost.

My brother Finlay enlisted too, at the same time as Iain. Those two were inseparable growing up. It only stood to reason they’d go off to war together. My mother refuses to let my youngest brother, Willie, join up. He’s her baby, and she’ll hold him close for as long as she can. Willie’s been going about in a black cloud since Finlay went off. I think Màthair’s made a mistake and let the wrong one go. Willie’s always her lad, but Finlay, once he’s had a taste of the world, might never want to come back. He’s not made to be a crofter or a fisherman. I think the only thing that will bring him back to Skye is Kate.

I’ve been trying to write, to go out walking by myself and compose some poems. But they all come out jumbled. Not quite right. I need things back to normal. I need to keep my mind from things. I can’t think about Iain or Finlay or any of our other boys getting ready to go off to fight and die.

I’m not sure why I didn’t tell you about my husband. I suppose it just never fit into our conversations. But now I’m weary of not always telling you the absolute truth.

Elspeth

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

November 2, 1914


Dear Sue,

I can understand how your brother Willie feels. You know me, I wouldn’t be happy either if I were left behind while everyone else went off to war. I’d want the adventure too.

I know it may not be much, but I’ve started writing down those fairy stories I’ve been telling Florence. I’ve included one with this letter—“The Mouse King’s Cheese.” Florence adores cheese! I thought you might find it entertaining, something to pass the time. It’s not finished, though. I’m not quite sure how to end it. Maybe you have an idea?

Another term has begun and I feel a bit more confident, having taught these classes all before. We’ve just finished talking about the history of chemistry (starting from the alchemists, then Lavoisier, Mendeleev, and the like). My students turned in the most appalling set of essays. To think, they will be the next generation of statesmen and lawyers, and they can’t even construct a proper argument! At any rate, when I was reading these and ruminating that I (I hope!) wrote a bit better at that age, I couldn’t help but think of you.

Sue, you must start writing again. Don’t try to force yourself, but tuck a pencil and a square of paper in your waistband, so that whenever and wherever your muse returns to you, you will be able to stop and scribble it down. Emerson said, “Genius is the activity which repairs the decay of things,” and he was talking about poetry. I think if you get to writing again, that could be the thing to help you return to the normality that you crave.

In any case, don’t stop writing to me, no matter what. It may not be poetry to you, but I’ve never thought of your letters as anything less.

Waiting for the poetry, David

Isle of Skye

29 November 1914


Dear David,

Oh, I think the horrid little girl should stay a mouse forever! Climbing onto the table to reach the bread on the other side? I do hope your niece has nicer table manners than that.

Well, if you can’t leave Lottie as a mouse, what could you do to her? I mean aside from having her be caught by Mrs. Owl and made into mouse mousse. She has to learn her lesson somehow. Maybe something involving the pies cooling on her mother’s window? (O, what a temptation….) Or maybe she has to rescue the Mouse King in some way and thus receives his undying gratitude? Maybe she falls in love with the Mouse King? I don’t know for certain, but someone in a gold velvet robe and miniature shoes has to be quite eye-catching. As though he were wearing a checked jacket. It wouldn’t be surprising if she fell in love.

You’ll be pleased to know I’ve dashed off a few poems. I took your advice and began to carry my notebook and pencil along with me, and one morning, as I was washing the floor (how mundane these things are sometimes!), an idea came to me. I sat there on the wet floor while my wash water cooled, and I jotted down a poem. It isn’t the “genius” of Emerson, but it seemed to capture my thoughts at the moment.

I’ve had to take over many of Iain’s chores now that he’s left. Yesterday the wind snapped one of the ropes we use to secure the thatch on the roof. A patch worked its way loose during the night, and I was greeted with a pile of snow in my kitchen come morning. You should’ve seen me on the roof, clinging on with one hand like one of Kipling’s Bandar-Log, trying to tie down a bundle of thatch with the other. When I came in, my eyebrows and eyelashes were all frozen together, and I had to suck on my fingers in order to thaw them enough to make a cup of tea. I’ve taken to wearing my trousers nearly every day, such is the work that I’ve been doing. I know that Iain didn’t think of that when he decided to up and leave to follow boyish dreams of glory.

You know, Davey, the nights are the worst. I sit by the fire, knitting or holding an unread book on my lap, and I can’t stop my mind from racing, can’t stop my ears from hearing every rattle and creak. I try to go to bed early, so that I don’t have to think and feel alone, but I just can’t fall asleep. I admit, I’ve been pulling out all of your old letters and rereading them, sometimes falling asleep covered in your words. It makes me feel that you are really here and that I’m not alone. I can imagine we’re talking. Absurd, I know, since we’ve never actually talked and I don’t know what your voice sounds like. By the way, do you realise how pretentious you sounded in your early letters to me? You must have really wished to impress me.

I finally feel tired, so I think I’ll end this now and blow out the candle. If the weather holds tomorrow, I’ll be able to post this, but I think the mail is taking longer these days.

Elspeth

Terre Haute, Indiana, U.S.A.

December 23, 1914


Dear Sue,

I’m in Terre Haute, spending Christmas with Evie, Hank, and Florence. I got your letter as I was leaving for the station and was happy to have such pleasant reading material for the train. Such a lengthy missive; the winter nights on Skye must be long indeed.

Your suggestions roused me to finish “The Mouse King’s Cheese,” so I now include the ending of this story for your perusal (approval?). I’ve read the completed tale to Florence, who jumped up and down and cried, “ ’Gain! Read it ’gain!” If I can inspire a similar response in you, I will be satisfied.

I’m surprised to hear you refer to “boyish dreams of glory,” you who are always so careful to avoid labeling based on gender. Around here, I hear as many women as men berate President Wilson for keeping America’s toes neatly out of the maelstrom in Europe. America hasn’t had a war in a while; we’re spoiling for a fight.

Just last night at dinner Evie got into quite a tirade against Wilson. Our grandfather fought near the end of the Civil War, and we grew up listening to his stories. That man could spin a tale! No one else could make war sound so unlike war. He enthralled even young Evie, such that she pasted on a fake mustache and played Rough Riders with me all summer.

Even though Dad didn’t have a war when he was in the prime of his life, he stayed out of the army, to his father’s eternal disappointment. Not sure Gramps ever forgave him for that. He thought soldiering and war a civic duty; Dad thought it suicide. If America jumps into the fight, I may join up simply to spite Dad.

But cheerier thoughts certainly are needed. Evie has already been spoiling the festivities here with talk of war. Hank is ready to send her to sleep in the barn. The merriest of Christmases to you, Sue. You may be quite alone there in your little cottage, but know that you are not forgotten and that someone is thinking of you this Christmas.

David

Isle of Skye

21 January 1915


Dear Davey,

A new year and a belated Christmas gift for you. My newest book! Your letter and the box of freshly printed books from my publisher arrived on the same day, so you will receive one of the very first copies. It seems so strange to read these poems now, as they were all written before the war. So different from the themes of my recent poetry. No flowers, clouds, and summer days. I’m writing on darker subjects and emotions now: loneliness, anger, bleak winters. I’m not sure it’s that good, but at least it is helping to “slay my dragons,” as they say.

I get news so sporadically from Iain that I may go mad. Really, I hear more about him from Finlay. Thank goodness for a letter-writing brother. In fact, I think I may already be going mad, as I’m considering moving into my parents’ cottage until Iain comes home. I slipped on some ice and sprained my ankle the other day whilst out walking. Luckily, I was in town buying groceries at the time and someone was able to get me to the doctor’s, but it made me worry. What if it had happened when I was at home alone? I don’t have a telephone and I would’ve been quite by myself, unless someone happened by for an unexpected visit.