_Saranac Lake_, _Adirondacks_, _N.Y._, _U.S.A._, _Christmas_ 1887.
MY DEAR MISS BOODLE,—And a very good Christmas to you all; and better
fortune; and if worse, the more courage to support it—which I think is
the kinder wish in all human affairs. Somewhile—I fear a good
while—after this, you should receive our Christmas gift; we have no tact
and no taste, only a welcome and (often) tonic brutality; and I dare say
the present, even after my friend Baxter has acted on and reviewed my
hints, may prove a White Elephant. That is why I dread presents. And
therefore pray understand if any element of that hamper prove unwelcome,
_it is to be exchanged_. I will not sit down under the name of a giver
of White Elephants. I never had any elephant but one, and his initials
were R. L. S.; and he trod on my foot at a very early age. But this is a
fable, and not in the least to the point: which is that if, for once in
my life, I have wished to make things nicer for anybody but the Elephant
(see fable), do not suffer me to have made them ineffably more
embarrassing, and exchange—ruthlessly exchange!
For my part, I am the most cockered up of any mortal being; and one of
the healthiest, or thereabout, at some modest distance from the bull’s
eye. I am condemned to write twelve articles in _Scribner’s Magazine_
for the love of gain; I think I had better send you them; what is far
more to the purpose, I am on the jump with a new story which has
bewitched me—I doubt it may bewitch no one else. It is called _The
Master of Ballantrae_—pronounce Bällän-tray. If it is not good, well,
mine will be the fault; for I believe it is a good tale.
The greetings of the season to you, and your mother, and your sisters.
My wife heartily joins.—And I am, yours very sincerely,