Ruth darling,
Unless my calculations are wrong this letter and four others are all that will reach you at Ouray before it is time for you to start home—and I’m glad. Not that I don’t like writing to you, but I like communicating with you in another way so much better, though there will be three , or rather five, days during which I shall have neither pleasure unless I send the letters to the places where you are to stop, which probably wouldn’t work as you p perhaps won’t know until you get there just where you will stay each night. Well, I’ve stood nearly six weeks weeks now, so suppose I’ll be able to survive until the twenty-fifth.
Bob Stephens and I took a walk in the park this afternoon, the first I’ve taken since last April or May, when we used to go there once in a while—or was it just twice in two whiles? We had a lovely afternoon for it, the sun was warm, the air was cool, and I felt like walking. We saw the bears fed, saw the chimpanzees stage a fight, saw the seals swim, and funniest of all saw those little, fat, bow-legged Malay sun-bears sit on the rocks in their pen, leaning back against a ledge, and holding their fat bellies with both hands as if they were portly bank directors who had just finished a hearty meal. Then back home to write to you.
Seems as if I should be able to write more than I do, for I think of you all of the time. You are in my thoughts almost constantly from the time I wake up in the morning until I go to sleep at night, and, though I seldom dream when I’m asleep, I do dream of you at times. I’ve even awakened in the night—a thing almost unheard of for me to do—thinking of you. I have been so lucky in winning your love, and I love you so much—in spite of the way I act at times. All my life I’ll be trying to get an impossible task accomplished, and that is—to tell you how much
I love you,
Harold