p.

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 in-
dividually, 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 picture-
that 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.