This is the roughest road in Texas I suppose.
We are approaching Ft. Worth an hour late, hence the reason I am endeavoring to write while we move. (If we were on time, I could write after we arrive.) The car is supposed to stay there an hour.
Uncle Harry seems to be enjoying himself. He is able to lead every big lie that is told in his presence by a bigger one. When he can do that he's happy. He's begun to cuss Texas though, which isn't so happy for me. I doubt very much if he allows me to do anything down here. If he doesn't, I'm going to try and make him loosen up at home. It is springtime here. They are plowing and burning just as we do in May. It is certainly fine weather down here. I want to stay but I can't. There's a month's work at home to be done in a week. Vivian and Mr. Blair seem to think that I am badly in need of a guardian for even suggesting west Texas. I have converted Blair but Vivian never. He can do nothing but quote his paw-in-law. You know the old geezer has just s old a one-third interest in a Joplin mine and made some more money. The mine cost the three of them $30,000. They sold it for $105,000. He has another one that brings him $1,000 a week. I wish him some more luck. That won't keep me from trying my luck if I can. You are well acquainted with my very urgent reasons for wanting some kind of good luck. I shall send you another letter from San Angelo.
I am sending Nellie a grand collection of jails, libraries, and schools. You should see them. Here's the city. I must quit.