I haven't written a letter, except on business, since leaving
Washington, June 30--no, not since Scheff's arrival there. I now
return to earth, and my first call is on you.
You'll be glad to know that I'm having a good time here in the
Catskills. I shall not go back so long as I can find an open hotel.
* * * * *
I should like to hear from you about our--or rather your--set in
California, and especially about _you_. Do you still dally with the
Muse? Enclosed you will find two damning evidences of additional
incapacity. _Harper's_ now have "A Wine of Wizardry," and they too
will indubitably turn it down. I shall then try _The Atlantic_, where
it should have gone in the first place; and I almost expect its
acceptance.
I'm not working much--just loafing on my cottage porch; mixing an
occasional cocktail; infesting the forests, knife in hand, in pursuit
of the yellow-birch sapling that furnishes forth the walking stick
like yours; and so forth. I knocked off work altogether for a month
when Scheff came, and should like to do so for _you_. Are you never
going to visit the scenes of your youth?
* * * * *
It is awfully sad--that latest visit of Death to the heart and home of
poor Katie Peterson. Will you kindly assure her of my sympathy?
Love to all the Piedmontese. Sincerely yours,