Saturday. Mar. 17. '17.
This is St. Patrick's day and I am thinking so hard of the lovely one we had in New Westminster last year. Wasn't it the most perfect day in every way. The drive over there, and seeing you all, and the 72nd winning everything, and the drive back at night and seeing you all marching and singing in the distance, and then to get home eventually about eleven and find you waiting for me. It was such a perfect day all through. I wonder what you are doing this 17th - its seems a funny thing to say but I hope you're in hospital getting a good rest and getting your knee better and perhaps your cough - you never told me if that quite faded away. Do tell me just how you feel Arfie for I always seem to know anyway when you're not alright and it worries me if you don't say anything about it. Do you get a gold stripe on your sleeve for this knee?
I have spent the whole morning in the garden tying up raspberry canes and clearing around the roots - it has been great fun and makes me feel very much at home. Aunt Edie is being awfully nice to me and is planning all sorts of nice little outings for me to keep me happy. Aunt Emily and Florrie and Ethel are coming this afternoon for tea and to stay to dinner - a little sort of family party in my honour. Then Dolly and Co are to come sometime next week.
You would love this garden with its stone walls and so many fruit trees that need pruning. I find I was always kept so busy keeping you from pruning or trying to that I haven't the haziest idea how to go about it myself. I wonder if our fruit trees are becoming scientific or nice old romantic ones. Don't instruct Mr. Ross how to deal with them - they must be rejoicing in your absence. Love from your little pal, Alice Leighton.