I've done three little stories for the March number (they may be postponed) that are ghastly enough to make a pig squeal.
* * *
Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.
Washington, D. C.,
March 12,
1906.
My dear George,
First, about the "Wine," I dislike the "privately printed" racket. Can you let the matter wait a little longer? Neale has the poem, and Neale is just now inaccessible to letters, somewhere in the South in the interest of his magazine-that-is-to-be. I called when in New York, but he had flown and I've been unable to reach him; but he is due here on the 23rd. Then if his mag is going to hold fire, or if he doesn't want the poem for it, let Robertson or Josephare have a hack at it.
Barr is amusing. I don't care to have a copy of his remarks.
About the pirating of my stories. That is a matter for Chatto and Windus, who bought the English copyright of the book from which that one story came. I dare say, though, the publication was done by arrangement with them. Anyhow my interests are not involved.
I was greatly interested in your account of Mrs. Austin. She's a clever woman and should write a good novel—if there is such a thing as a good novel. I won't read novels.