Letter in rhyme written by Horace Sidney Crosby to his neice
Cornelia Anne Stone Perrigo, daughter of Horace’s half sister,
Cornelia Anne Crosby Stone

(Typewritten copy made by Dorothy Perrigo (granddaughter of Cornelia)
in 1933 or 1934 in Ocean Beach, California. Her family gave original to
one of Horace’s granddaughters.)

Georgetown Colorado Terr.
Jan. 20th 1875

Dear Niece ’Tis the twentieth day of the year
Serene, mild and calm with the sky fair and clear.
Over cliff and o’er crag and the valley below
Is a mantle of silver, white glittering snow.
I am sitting today in my cottage alone
For the queen of my household — fair Adda is gone
Not gone of for good, or I shouldn’t be here
Scribbling rhymes with my heart ful of gladness and cheer,
She has taken the baby and just started down
To visit Pa K.’s in the edge of town.
“What! a baby! why haven’t you told us?” you cry.
Give me time, I was coming to that by and by.
Yes, a sweet babe is ours — that is Adda’s and mine.
She is sweet (why of course) has dark eyes and hair.
As pleasant as May, never troubled with care.
Your baby’s the best you say, I ever saw.
Now that isn’t the truth, neither gospel nor law,
For our baby is cutest and sweetest and best
That ever was born in the East or the West.
This is what they all say, and of course it is true
I firmly believe it and why shouldn’t you?
The name we have given our sweet baby belle
Is “Jessie Leonora” isn’t that pretty well?
On a subject so little, enough has been said,
I don’t want to tire you, so I’ll try a new head.
What next on the list, shall it be our good health,
Hard times and high prices; our prospect for wealth,
Or the weather in all of its various forms,
The sunshiny days, and the heavy snow storms.
I’ll begin with the first. As to health I would say
We are all pretty well — feeling tolerable gay.
Nothng extra, you know, for that will ne’er be
While the peaks of the “Rockies” around us we see.
Too light is the air and too dry is the clime
For the general health to remain in its prime.
Hard times and high prices just lie about loose,
Still the man who would grumble isn’t right on the goose.
He sure must be lazy or else he’s a shirk
For the man who is willing can always find work.
As to wealth, I’m afraid that our prospect is slim
And the road that leads to it is distant and dim,
Yet I care not for wealth — or for gorgeous attire,
A “thousand a year,” would be all I desire
Our wants they are simple, we ask nothing grand
Plain clothing, plain food — a few good books at hand.
A good daily paper — a weekly or two,
Just to keep our selves posted on all that is new.
Wife and I have been thinking and talking of late
On making a home in the far “golden State.”
Not soon, do I mean, but a year or two hence,
When perhaps we’ll be able to stand the expense.
We’ve not got the fever, its only a notion
That we’d like to reside by that deep and grand Ocean
Of all Oceans the grandest, whose blue waters lave
The shores of old Asia and the “home of the brave.”
In the land where Yo Semite’s wonders unfold
Where the sands of the rivers are mingled with gold
Where the orange and lemon — the citron an vine
All flourish beneath the tall red-wood and pine.
Where the climate is mild and the weather most fair,
With Italy’s skies and its soft balmy air.
If I put it too fine — and too nice and too good
I’ll throw in an earthquake, tornado and flood
A season of dust and slight spell of mud.
And now I am sure I have made it all right
For I’ve shown you the dark side as well as the bright.

Since New Years the weather we’ve had has been tough,
With plenty of snowstorms, and winds fierce and rough.
For a day or two past it has been quite serene,
With sunshiny days, and the nights clear and keen.

The paper you sent has been gobbled I fear
For one thing is certain it hasn’t reached here.
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