“I used to keep a scrap-book in which I glued the little printed statements about my having called and subscribed for the paper, or to the effect that I had just laid a porcelain egg on the editor’s table measuring nine inches in circumference, but the book warped and the glue in it turned sour, so that when I used to give it to my guests to read while I went upstairs to dress, I noticed that they frequently opened the window and sometimes went out for more air, strolling so far away from the house that they never got back. So I don’t keep a scrap-book any more.” Referring to his new play, “The Cadi,” he wrote: “The prospects are fine. What the _Vampire Press_ will say no one knows, but Robson, Jefferson, among ’em, are hopeful and tickled. Let me know if you can come to the show so I can ‘avoid the rush.’” Nye’s friendships were steadfast. He wrote once, after John Cockerill retired from the New York _World_: “The paper has wired me to ‘reconsider.’ But I would rather stick by Cockerill under all circumstances, as he has been my staunch friend always, and now I’m his’n.” In 1892, Bill Nye was lecturing, and, as usual, quite successfully. At that time our business relations had ended, and he was under other management. He wrote to me from Chicago: “Everything is unsettled except my salary, which is paid every twenty-four hours.” Of a former experience he remarks: “I’d have done better to put in that spring cultivating colts. However, it is none of my business this time. The ghost walks every night.” Again during this tour he says: “I would enjoy your letters more if you would not refer to Chautauqua, I have always refused to lecture in the stockades. I’ve got a trunk full of their letters now asking me to speak a few words in absolute confidence to the United States in Foley’s Grove, but I will not. I am saving my voice to cool my hot Scotches next winter.” He adds: “We had a long visit with Riley last week. We had some old-fashioned fun, and I descended for the day to the realms of Poesy, where they chew ‘star’ tobacco. Poesy is indeed a strange gift.” In another letter he apologized for the smallness of the paper by saying: “This paper belongs to Mrs. Nye, and the envelope belongs to a man who wanted an autograph. So, you see, I am getting economical. It has a stamp.” Here is a letter which he illustrated in a humorous fashion: * * * * * “ARDEN, N. C., May 23, 1895. “MY DEAR JUNIUS BRUTUS POND: “There’s no use talking, with all your faults I enjoy the sight of your wild, unlicensed penmanship. ‘Another season of pleasure and amusement stares us in the face,’ as you so truly, so succinctly, and so merrily say! Oh, it is fun to be merry all the time at so much per pop, is it not? “Merrily yours, “LITTLE BILLIE NYE.” “P.S.--We have just merrily passed through diphtheria, but all is serene again.” * * * * *