Luck to you in the new year, and in many to follow.
Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.
The Olympia
Apartments,
Washington, D. C.,
I prefer to get my
letters at this address.
Make a memorandum
of it.
January 28,
1913.
Dear Lora,
I have been searching for your letter of long ago, fearing it contained something that I should have replied to. But I don't find it; so I make the convenient assumption that it did not.
I'd like to hear from you, however unworthy I am to do so, for I want to know if you and Carlt have still a hope of going mining. Pray God you do, if there's a half-chance of success; for success in the service of the Government is failure.
Winter here is two-thirds gone and we have not had a cold day, and only one little dash of snow—on Christmas eve. Can California beat that? I'm told it's as cold there as in Greenland.
Tell me about yourself—your health since the operation—how it has affected you—all about you. My own health is excellent; I'm equal to any number of Carlt's toddies. By the way, Blanche has made me a co-defendant with you in the crime (once upon a time) of taking a drop too much. I plead not guilty—how do you plead? Sloots, at least, would acquit us on the ground of inability—that one can't take too much. * * *
Affectionately, your avuncular, Ambrose.