SARANAC, October, 1887.
[To W. H. Low.]
SIR,—I have to trouble you with the following _paroles bien
senties_. We are here at a first-rate place. 'Baker's' is the
name of our house; but we don't address there, we prefer the
tender care of the Post-Office, as more aristocratic (it is
no use to telegraph even to the care of the Post-Office, who
does not give a single damn). Baker's has a prophet's chamber,
which the hypercritical might describe as a garret with a hole
in the floor; in that garret, sir, I have to trouble you and
your wife to come and slumber. Not now, however: with manly
hospitality, I choke off any sudden impulse. Because first, my
wife and my mother are gone (a note for the latter, strongly
suspected to be in the hand of your talented wife, now sits
silent on the mantel shelf), one to Niagara and t' other to
Indianapolis. Because, second, we are not yet installed. And
because, third, I won't have you till I have a buffalo robe
and leggings, lest you should want to paint me as a plain
man, which I am not, but a rank Saranacker and wild man of
the woods.
Yours,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.