"And strict concern of relativity"—O bother! that's not poetry. It's the slang of philosophy.
I am still awaiting my copy of the new "Testimony." That's why I'm scolding.
Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.
The Army and
Navy Club,
Washington, D. C.,
April 18,
1908.
My dear Lora,
I'm an age acknowledging your letter; but then you'd have been an age writing it if you had not done it for "Sloots." And the other day I had one from him, written in his own improper person.
I think it abominable that he and Carlt have to work so hard—at their age—and I quite agree with George Sterling that Carlt ought to go to Carmel and grow potatoes. I'd like to do that myself, but for the fact that so many objectionable persons frequent the place: * * *, * * * and the like. I'm hoping, however, that the ocean will swallow * * * and be unable to throw him up.
I trust you'll let Sloots "retire" at seventy, which is really quite well along in life toward the years of discretion and the age of consent. But when he is retired I know that he will bury himself in the redwoods and never look upon the face of man again. That, too, I should rather like to do myself—for a few months.
I've laid out a lot of work for myself this season, and doubt if I shall get to California, as I had hoped. So I shall never, never see you. But you might send me a photograph.