Scheff tells me his book is out and mine nearly out. But what of yours? I do fear me it never will be out if you rely upon its "acceptance" by any American publisher. If it meets with no favor among the publisher tribe we must nevertheless get it out; and you will of course let me do what I can. That is only tit for tat. But tell me about it.
I dare say Scheff, who is clever at getting letters out of me—the scamp!—has told you of my being up here atop of the Alleghenies, and why I am here. I'm having a rather good time. * * * Can you fancy me playing croquet, cards, lawn—no, thank God, I've escaped lawn tennis and golf! In respect of other things, though, I'm a glittering specimen of the Summer Old Man.
Did you have a good time in the redwoods?
Please present my compliments to Madame (and Mademoiselle) Sterling. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.
Aurora,
West Virginia,
September 8,
1903.
Dear Sterling,
I return the verses with a few suggestions.
I'm sorry your time for poetry is so brief. But take your pencil and figure out how much you would write in thirty years (I hope you'll live that long) at, say, six lines a day. You'll be surprised by the result—and encouraged. Remember that 50,000 words make a fairly long book.
You make me shudder when you say you are reading the "Prattle" of years. I haven't it and should hardly dare to read it if I had. There is so much in it to deplore—so much that is not wise—so much that was the expression of a mood or a whim—so much was not altogether sincere—so many half-truths, and so forth. Make allowances, I beg, and where you cannot, just forgive.