Percival Lowell
FLAGSTAFF
The Peaks this morning are white-laced from yesterday's storm, a white mantilla over their heads and shoulders. With yesterday's mail, too, came a long-given up letter from Morse Sensei, pouring ashes on his own head and beating his breast for his failure to write before. He enclosed a letter from Elihu Thomson of a most interesting character. Prof. Thomson made himself some time ago a teninch glass, and this summer he has been trying to see something on Mars. Most of the nights were, bad, but on July 5th he was vouchsafed an hour of capital seeing and behold the canals came out. His letter is so much to the point that Mr. Lampland wants it published. So I am writing to Morse to see if it cannot be arranged. I am going to suggest to Morse to embody it in an article for the Atlantic. I shall copy the letter for you in case I return the original before you get back.
I am very glad you are having a pleasant time, and I read your letters and scanned their enclosures with much satisfaction.
We narrowly escaped a frost last night. It was certainly uncommon cold—nice, too, this first freshness of fall, when the mid-days are still sun-warmed and bright. The box of morning glories on the piazza have been in bloom for some days; side by side with the flowering potted geraniums. Those by the bathroom are mammoth, veritable Jack-and-the-Beanstalk ones.
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