Woodrow Wilson to Jessie Woodrow Wilson Sayre

I can't tell you how welcome your and dear Nen's letters were. It made me sad to learn that you had had fever and an ulcer on your throat; but dear Mama's letter that came at the same time told me that you were all right again, and so the sadness went, and only the gladness remained, that you were well and that you had shown your love for me by writing to me.
We are in Oxford to-day. I got here late yesterday—after seven o'clock a good deal—and to-day is Sunday; so we have seen very little of the place yet. But I remember it from last time and know how beautiful and attractive it is. Oxford, you know, is England's great university town. We hope Princeton will be like it some of these days,—say about two hundred years from now. It is full of buildings like Blair Hall by the station and the University Library. Only the Oxford buildings are more beautiful than ours. They have been standing so long that they look, not new, but venerable. Their old stone is of such soft colours, and they are covered over so often with ivy—like the front of Old North. And then, behind them and about them, are beautiful gardens, with great trees and shady lawns and inviting cool places to sit and read, or fancy how all the great Oxford men who have made England's history, and all the great writers who studied at Oxford must have fared when they were here. It would be hard not to study, wouldn't it, where so many people have been studying for almost a thousand years? We were in Cambridge about a week ago, and that is just such another place; only there are more beautiful buildings in Oxford and it is in some ways even more attractive than Cambridge.
I had my first piece of hard luck with my wheel yesterday. As I tell Nen. in my letter to her, I rode from Stratford on Avon to Oxford. The road was easy and the riding delightful, and I was going along at a lively rate just a mile the other side of Woodstock (where the great Duke of Marlborough lived) when I suddenly discoved that my front tire was flat. I had had a puncture. I had to get off and walk a mile, pushing the wheel, into the village, and wait there until the tire was mended,—two hours, from five till seven. I rested at a nice little inn (called the Bear), took tea there, and rode the remaining seven miles into Oxford after tea. You know the sun does not set here till nearly eight at this time of the year, and so I got to my hotel before sun set,—about a quarter to eight.
Good-bye, my sweet little daughter. Lots of love for Margaret and Beth., and for yourself all that you want from