Dear Lora,
It is good to hear from you again, even if I did have to give you a hint that I badly needed a letter.
I am glad that you are going to the mine (if you go)—though Berkeley and Oakland will not be the same without you. And where can I have my mail forwarded?—and be permitted to climb in at the window to get it. As to pot-steaks, toddies, and the like, I shall simply swear off eating and drinking.
If Carlt is a "game sport," and does not require "a dead-sure thing," the mining gamble is the best bet for him. Anything to get out of that deadening, hopeless grind, the "Government service." It kills a man's self-respect, atrophies his powers, unfits him for anything, tempts him to improvidence and then turns him out to starve.
It is pleasant to know that there is a hope of meeting you in Yosemite—the valley would not be the same without you. My girls cannot leave here till the schools close, about June 20, so we shall not get into the valley much before July first; but if you have a good winter, with plenty of snow, that will do. We shall stay as long as we like. George says he and Carrie can go, and I hope Sloots can. It is likely that Neale, my publisher, will be of my party. I shall hope to visit your mine afterward.
* * *
My health, which was pretty bad for weeks after returning from Sag Harbor, is restored, and I was never so young in all my life.
Here's wishing you and Carlt plenty of meat on the bone that the new year may fling to you.
Affectionately, Ambrose.
