Until today I have been remembering full of melancholy which meaning a sheet of paper should get in my live. The first journeys into my parent's holiday camps that took place in different regions had been full of adventures and thrilling. I learned to know a lot of friends, and later sitting round the evening fire I sometimes held the hand of a girl that liked me. It didn't last long that I felt homesick, and in the night I often sobbed secretly into my pillow. What happiness for me, at least twice in a fortnight my name was called in the daily distributing of post. And full of joy I held a letter from my mother in hand. Oh, how well she understood to sweeten my homesickness: “My dear little Peter, are you going on well? We are often thinking of you and are missing you very much. Hope you feel okay and don't do silly things!” I just over read the silly things, and the rest was balm for my soul.
It is an autobiographical narrative.
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