I am delighted to know that I am to have "the book" so soon, and will give it my best attention and (if you still desire) some prefatory lines. Think out a good title and I shall myself be hospitable to any suggestion of my dæmon in the matter. He has given me nothing for the star poem yet.
* * *
You'll "learn in suffering what you teach in song," all right; but let us hope the song will be the richer for it. It will be. For that reason I never altogether "pity the sorrows" of a writer—knowing they are good for him. He needs them in his business. I suspect you must have shed a tear or two since I knew you.
I'm sending you a photograph, but you did not tell me if Maid Marian the Superb already has one—that's what I asked you, and if you don't answer I shall ask her.
* * *
Yes, I am fairly well, and, though not "happy," content. But I'm dreadfully sorry about Peterson.
Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.
I am about to break up my present establishment and don't know where my next will be. Better address me "Care N. Y. American and Journal Bureau, Washington, D. C."
You see I'm still chained to the oar of yellow journalism, but it is a rather light servitude.
