Dear Master--If only I could find a way to make a living* writing fake correspondence for Emily Dickinson. My life would be greatly simplified.
Dreamt last night--this little one was in Philadelphia--brotherly love indeed--I have leant my Beard to the hyssop this season and doubt to see it again--and kneeling opon the road saw the tread tread tread of your black boots your Little One knows so well--sha'nt we have a grand time when you have given back the Seal of the King and bound our Circuit? Too much happiness for this Rescinded Budd I can tell you. You hav'nt a Bayonet's Worth of Contrition, have you? for I hav'nt and sha'nt even in the Kingdom if they let my in their Kitchen door like Maggie bundling up her Calicoes.
*I thought of that, but her handwriting's too neat for me.