Baby Martha,
The grandpa you have never seen values the bit of note telling him that you had a tooth. All children get teeth, some sooner than others, and their coming is an event notable in every family. Sometimes they are troublesome. All, or most all, of the wise ones among the female folk hold this tooth coming as responsible for most of the disagreeable experiences such as [?], fretful nap, stomachaches, summer complaints, rashes, etc., etc., you little folks have: and sometimes they are correct but not always. They tell us, your Aunt Sallie in particular, that you are a fine baby – the very finest in all the land. Well, your old grandpa, having seen a few in his day, while taking the assertion with an allowance, of course, will not essay to the suggestion of a [?]. He will accept it all and wait until you are here with me sometime. By the way the warm weather of summer is near, and you, like other babies, will find the heat of summer a trial, and especially is this the case in city like Norfolk. And you have the mosquitoes, too. – Little flies with long bills, lancet pointed – musical, yet tormenting. Tell your Mama not to keep you there exposed to these things. You may [?] beautiful [?] already now. Tell her to get back to the hill country where the nights are cold, the air pure, the grass green, and the mosquito rarely seen or heard. Here you can [?] in the grassy sward and kick up your heels and be happy.
Tell Mama that grandma is not well. Aunt Sallie is fussing around looking forward to the time when she will be vexed no more with the whys and wherefores of things terrestrial, but will sail on the sea of unrippled contentment. [?] happy anticipation.
With much love to your Mama and Papa,
Grandpa,
Marion, Va.