The election for
the highest office in the province (Superintendent) comes off in
about a fortnight. There is altogether a small storm going on in our
teacup, quite brisk enough to stir everything in it. My principal
interest therein is the sale of election ribbons, though I am afraid,
owing to the bad weather, there will be little display. Besides the
elections, there is nothing interesting. We all go on pretty well.
I have got a pony about four feet high, that carries me about ten
miles from Wellington, which is much more than walking distance, to
which I have been confined for the last ten years. I have given over
most of the work to Miss Smith, who will finally take the business,
and if we had fine weather I think I should enjoy myself. My main
want here is for books enough to fill up my idle time. It seems to
me that when I get home I will spend half my income on books, and
sell them when I have read them to make it go further. I know this
is absurd, but people with an unsatisfied appetite think they can eat
enormously.
'Remember me kindly to Miss Wooler, and tell me all about her in your
next.--Yours affectionately,
'MARY TAYLOR.'
Miss Taylor wrote one or two useful letters to Mrs.
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