Dear George,
I haven't written a letter, except on business, since leaving Washington, June 30—no, not since Scheff's arrival there. I now return to earth, and my first call is on you.
You'll be glad to know that I'm having a good time here in the Catskills. I shall not go back so long as I can find an open hotel.
* * *
I should like to hear from you about our—or rather your—set in California, and especially about you. Do you still dally with the Muse? Enclosed you will find two damning evidences of additional incapacity. Harper's now have "A Wine of Wizardry," and they too will indubitably turn it down. I shall then try The Atlantic, where it should have gone in the first place; and I almost expect its acceptance.
I'm not working much—just loafing on my cottage porch; mixing an occasional cocktail; infesting the forests, knife in hand, in pursuit of the yellow-birch sapling that furnishes forth the walking stick like yours; and so forth. I knocked off work altogether for a month when Scheff came, and should like to do so for you. Are you never going to visit the scenes of your youth?
* * *
It is awfully sad—that latest visit of Death to the heart and home of poor Katie Peterson. Will you kindly assure her of my sympathy?
Love to all the Piedmontese. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.
