Everybody’s Magazine sent down the editor’s automobile and took me uptown to a distinguished nerve specialist, who decided that I had been working too hard, and advised me either to take a trip to Europe or some tablets he had in a box. I took the tablets. They didn’t taste bad, so I kept on taking ’em, and I ain’t a bit worse to-day.
But none of ’em knew that what I needed was just somebody to fix a cushion for me on the sofa, and tell the man with the gas bill that I wasn’t in.
You asked me what I get for short stories. I get ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty cents a word, and everything engaged long before it’s written.
Now, I’ll tell you what to do: kick the mountains over and hurry to New York. It’s 50 per cent. of the game to see the editors in person. Right here is the only place on the American Continent where you can live. What are the mountains compared to it? Dear Carrie, kick the mountains over and take my advice. You are far enough advanced to make your way from the start. And I assure you, as I said, being on the ground is 50 per cent of the game.
They call it a lonely city. Lonely! with every masterpiece of art, music, and beautiful things within a block of you! Say, Carrie, chop down the tomato vines and come on. I can get you into every editorial office in town (where you are not already appreciated), and you will make a success. Attend, oh, Princess of the Bluest Ridge, these are not the words of one D. Hudson the adolescent, but of Bob the Perspicacious, who has seen and who knows. If I didn’t think you had the genius to win the game I’d never advise you to try.
There’s a line in your letter—“I couldn’t know what the boy had developed into.” I can only say into one surely no better, unsatisfied, and always remembering the little girl next door.
Please, Carrie, write to me soon, and if you don’t like my letter say you condone it, for there ain’t nobody up here like you, and I’m awfully lonesome to-night. And so, may I sign myself,
Yours as ever,
Bob.
P.S. I’m awfully glad to see by the weather reports that there’s a freeze coming. I hope the gent that rows you on the lake will have to buy tacks to put in his oars.
P.P.S. I was in a thanksgiving party where we had a flashlight photo taken. I’ll send you one when they are printed.