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Oct 20, 79, The Morgue. Dear Taylor: Its been a cycle since I wrote you last, but I've been in the clutches of old Sir-Cumstance, and couldn't whimper. Just now I'm through with a long wrestle with my winter's programme, and I joy to tell you that it has safely passed the test, and lies approved and praised beyond my highest expectations. Both your brothers, and the Thompsons too, came down from Crawfordsville to hear it, and the combined crowd of 'em, and seperately and individually, made me feel mighty proud of the effort. I won't worry you with particulars, but can't refrain from enclosing the Journal comment (which is fair average of other notices) I haven't time to write you at length, but send the picturethat it may talk to you by the hour. This is a dead self, though, remember - for now my face is a desolate waste without a spear or tendril of the moustache that to your eyes "once so gracefully curled". But I'm the better reader without - it has been universally approved and you mustn't raise a murmur of dissent.
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Soon I will send you the present Riley - then we will suppress this mustachioed knight of the sorrowful figure entirely - for I have inwardly resolved to go bare-faced clean to Glory's topmost peak, so's I can babble baby-stories to the angels. We had a grand reunion - as it seemed, - your brothers and I, and wished for you a thousand times. Don't know what questions you asked in your last letter, but will answer them in my next - when I shall have had time to get things once more to their places. The old picture of you is mammoth, and I love it as the good love - caramels - ah - yah - Yah! Got our o' John's too; but wont tell you which I think is the handsomest - 'cause to be frank it would sound like a lie either way - handsomest - the idea! Now in this picture of mine, you will of course find "a Joy forever" - but say, now, old man, that top-head, and those eyes are good, aint 'em? God bless 'em, anyhow, and your ugly picture too! The Little Man.
