Champion Ingraham Hitchcock,

the publisher and designer thereof—appreciative guide, counselor and encourager of other excursions into “the higher altitudes,”—with all love and long memory

Christmas, 1906.

Young E. Allison.

Well, because “Derelict” was a delight and Allison my friend, I gave away Rubrics by the score and, among others, saw that a copy went to Wallace Rice, literatus—and Chicago book reviewer—to whom I owe an everlasting debt of gratitude for precious moments saved by good advice on modern stuff not to read. In presenting “Derelict,” the Rubric publishers left an impression that the poem had but then been completed† † See letter to “The New York Times Book Review”. for its pages. I knew better; Wallace had read it before, in whole or in part and raised a question. It so worked upon me that later I decided to submit it to Allison himself. Sometimes we do things, and know not why, that have a very distinct later and wholly unexpected bearing upon situations, and when the opportunity for this volume arose, the memory that I had saved Allison’s penciled reply came over me. A patient search had its reward. Here is the letter† † Reproduced in [facsimile]. written with the same old lead pencil on the same old spongy copy paper:

Louisville Feb. 22, 1902.

Dear Hitch:

My supposition is that the Rubric folks misunderstood or have been misunderstood. The Dead Man’s Song was first written about 10 years ago—3 verses—and Henry Waller set it to music & it was published in New York. The version for the song did not exhaust it in my mind and so I took it up every now & then for 4 or 5 years and finally completed it. A very lovely little girl who was visiting my wife helped me to decide whether I should write in one verse “a flimsy shift” or “a filmy shift” or other versions, and her opinion on “flimsy” decided me. She is the only person that ever had anything to do with it—as far as I know! What hypnotic influences were at work or what astral minds may have intervened, I know not. But I have always thought I did it all. It was not much to do, except for a certain 17th Century verbiage and grisly humor.

I am glad you still believe I wouldn’t steal anybody else’s brains any more than I would his money. Waller wrote splendid singing music to it which Eugene Cowles used to bellow beautifully.

With best love, as always,