As you do not give me that lady's address I infer that you no longer
care to have me meet her--which is a relief to me.
* * * * *
Yes, I'm a bit broken up by the death of Pollard, whose body I
assisted to burn. He lost his mind, was paralyzed, had his head cut
open by the surgeons, and his sufferings were unspeakable. Had he
lived he would have been an idiot; so it is all right--
"But O, the difference to me!"
If you don't think him pretty bright read any of his last three books,
"Their Day in Court," "Masks and Minstrels," and "Vagabond Journeys."
He did not see the last one--Neale brought down copies of it when he
came to Baltimore to attend the funeral.
I'm hoping that if Carlt and Lora go to Wagner's mine and we go to
Yosemite, Lora, at least, will come to us out there. We shall need
her, though Carrie will find that Misses C. and S. will be "no
deadheads in the enterprise"--to quote a political phrase of long ago.
As to me, I shall leave my ten-pounds-each books at home and, like
St. Jerome, who never traveled with other baggage than a skull, be
"flying light." My love to Carrie.
Sincerely,
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[Washington, D. C.,
January 5, 1912.]