Dearest Mama
Here we all are
Safely arrived, with everything unpacked
Excepting the pilgrim basket and Laura’s box
Which we are leaving until after tea
Because we want to go down to the sea
And look for seaweed and limpets on the rocks
And walk along the sands towards the caves
On the very edge of the waves.
We had, on the whole, a most agreeable journey
But for the fact
That poor Belinda
(Everything always happens to Belinda)
Got something in her eye, a piece of cinder.
You can imagine the relief
When Nanny cleverly managed to extract
The sharp invader with her handkerchief.
The name of our landlady is Mrs. Gurney.

Later. After tea.
Dearest Mama how glad, how proud you’ll be
Arnold has paddled twice!
At first he was frightened and sat down and cried
On that hard kind of sand that’s wrinkled by the tide
Until Nanny produced a piece of coconut-ice
Which we had bought in a shop on the Parade.
Soon his tears were dried, then suddenly, unafraid
Away he went, brave as a lion
Upheld on each side
By Belinda and Bryan
A tiny epitome if “Hearts of Oak”
Kicking the little wavelets as they broke!
For tea we had shrimp and cake and bread and butter
And they were pink, the shrimps I mean, bright pink
Can you imagine what Aunt Knox would think?
Can you not hear the prophecies she’d utter?
Her disapproving tone, her fearful warning
That we should all be dead before the morning!

These lodgings are very comfortable
Though we haven’t yet tried the beds
Belinda and Laura are in the front
With a lithograph of Cain and Abel
And “The Light of the World” by Holman Hunt
Hanging above their heads.

Nanny’s bedroom, which Arnold shares
Is across the landing and down three stairs.
Bryan and I have two small rooms
On the very topmost floor.
His is in front and mine’s at the back
And a picture faces my door
Which someone cut out of an almanac
A picture of dashing young Hussars
Galloping off to war.
On the chest of drawers by the looking glass
There is—Imagine!—dried Pampas grass
Waving its fusty, dusty plumes
From a yellow Japanese vase.
But I can see over the sleepy town
To the curving line of the Sussex Down
And the sky and the moon and the stars.

Dearest Mama
Here we all are
Missing you so and wishing you could share
This pleasant gaslit room and the bracing air
And the prospect of tomorrow
For we are going on a picnic to a little bay
Beyond the lighthouse, several miles away.
Nanny has arranged with a Mr. Wells
To drive us in his wagonette
(Unless, of course, it’s wet)
And Mrs. Gurney says that we can borrow
A wicker basket that she has, with handles,
In which to put the shells
And coloured pebbles that we hope to find on the deserted shore
Because, it seems, this particular beach
Is out of reach
Of ordinary visitors and is therefore lonely.
Oh dearest Mama—if only—if only
You could be here with us. Now I must close
This untidy, rambling letter
For Nanny has come in with our bedroom candles.
We all of us pray Papa will soon be better
And that tomorrow’s weather will be fine.
Your loving and devoted—Caroline.