Every day I have been wishing to write you a letter—but the flesh is weak. My days have become solid like cannon balls, heavy with engagements. It is not true that I have no leisure at all, but unfortunately I cannot utilise interrupted leisure for any work whatever. Therefore those intervals are lost doing nothing. I am sure you know it, better than anybody else, that doing nothing is a burden hard to bear. But if you look at my exterior, you will find no trace of damage there—for my health is absurdly good. I hope Pearson is regularly furnishing you with all the news. He has been of very great help to me, as you can well imagine, and I find that the arduous responsibility of looking after a poet suits him wonderfully well. He is looking the very picture of health, and on the whole his dreams are felicitous. For instance, last night he dreamt that he had been buying strawberries as large as gourds. It proves the magnificent vitality of his dreams.
I know our vacation is over. The boys are back at school and the Ashram is resounding with laughter and songs. The advent of the rains is also contributing its portion to the rejoicing. How I wish I had wings! Give my love to all the children, and my blessings.