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1 January 1922

Chalet des Sapins, Montana-sur-Sierre, Switzerland

Dear Richard,
   I suppose I am one of those optimists. If I sit down & think, even, it doesn't remove my conviction (yes, its as strong as that) that the New Year is a most promising infant. I don't know why. It seemed to smile on us. And although we have (please prepare to roll your eyes) seven feet of snow outside our front door, there is a feeling of warmth within - a New Year feeling.
   Yes, the snow is terrific. It is like living in the moon. Trees are crashing to earth today & lamp posts are falling & theres no electric light, no little mountain railway. Your brother went forth this afternoon on his immense skis & sped over the tops of fences and walls. I wish you could see him. He wears a blue helmet, you know the kind-airman's helmet, a leather jacket, huge fingerless gloves (the gloves he used to eat a sponge cake in his Go-cart) but of a larger size, breeks, three pairs of stockings, & ski boots. He would earn enormous sums on the pictures in this get up & all covered with snow. I can hear a deep ‘A-Ah' go round the dark theatre as he leapt on to the screen. Poor little Wingley is quite confused by this snow. Cant understand it, poor little chap. He went out the other day & began to scratch, scratched, scratched away, SCRATCHED, sat up, scratched his ear, took a deep breath, scratched on & was just rescued by the tip of his quivering tail in time. I suppose he won't come to earth again until next April.  [To Richard Murry, 1 January 1922.]