White Creek April 15, 1827


My dear father,

	Never since the <s>period</s> commencement of my short existence have I felt half so much desire to see you.  I long to embrace you, and to pour into the paternal bosom the grief which now agitates and swells in my almost bursting heart.  There need be no apology for communicating, what you will doubtless be greatly surprised to hear, viz, that my mother for these two days past has conducted herself very strangely toward me and has actually refused me the sustenance which has hitherto nourished my tender frame.  I cannot say but that in other respects she appears quite as assiduous of formerly to please me.  She rocks me, sings to me, feeds me with bread and milk and keeps almost constantly some little dainty in my hand to please me, But all this does not satisfy me.  I long for that, which has hitherto been the anodyne in all my little griefs.  Some times my grief rises to such a pitch <s>that it</s> as to make the tears to start in mothers eye, but still she perseveres in refusing to grant me my wish.  She says I had last night, all I wished, after I fell asleep, but of this have no recollection.  Sometimes she takes a walk with me to divert me and during a few minutes I am amused and forget my troubles.

	Last Tuesday morning I walked over to the store in company with Aunt E. Smith.  After we had entered the door and I was stationed on the counter a gentleman, to, my great joy, presented a letter directed to Miss Ann Eliza Wait; with much pleasure I hastened home with it and presented the letter to mother with my own hand.  She kissed me, and the letter too, told me it was from my dear pa and placed me down in my little chair and requested me to be still while she read it to me.