* * *
So you have been ill. You must not be ill, my child—it disturbs my Marcus Aurelian tranquillity, and is most selfishly inconsiderate of you.
Mourn with me: the golden leaves of my poplars are now underwheel. I sigh for the perennial eucalyptus leaf of Piedmont.
I hope you are all well. Sincerely your friend, Ambrose Bierce.
San Jose,
November 20,
1894.
Since writing you yesterday, dear Blanche, I have observed that the benefit to * * * is not abandoned—it is to occur in the evening of the 26th, at Golden Gate Hall, San Francisco. I recall your kind offer to act for me in any way that I might wish to assist Miss * * *. Now, I will not have my name connected with anything that the * * * woman and her sister-in-evidence may do for their own glorification, but I enclose a Wells, Fargo & Co. money order for all the money I can presently afford—wherewith you may do as you will; buy tickets, or hand it to the treasurer in your own name. I know Miss * * * must be awfully needy to accept a benefit—you have no idea how sensitive and suspicious and difficult she is. She is almost impossible. But there are countless exactions on my lean purse, and I must do the rest with my pen. So—I thank you.
Sincerely your friend, Ambrose Bierce.
18 Iowa Circle,
Washington, D. C.,
January 1,
1901.