It is nearly midnight now.

The roar of London has died away to a fretful murmur, and somehow across this baking town a breeze has found its way.

It whispers over the green grass, in the ivy that climbs my wall, in the soft murky folds of my curtains.

Whispers--what?
Whispers, perhaps, the dreams that go with this, the first of my letters to you.

They are dreams that even I dare not whisper yet.
And so--good night.
THE STRAWBERRY MAN..