I bought a copy of Conan Doyle’s new “Sherlock Holmes” book in a nearby town recently, in the Conrad edition. A French publisher named Conrad has taken over the Tauchnitz business--you remember the Tauchnitz books, don’t you? Also I’ve been reading Harry Leon Wilson’s, “The Spenders”--an entertaining imitation of Mr. Howells, and rereading “The Cardinal’s Snuff Box”--most delightful. I love you very much, and I am very sorry for you--you aren’t having the amusing adventures I am having--but you’re able to write nice things, and that’s a consolation. I hope to see you and your admirable babies soon. JOYCE KILMER. * * * * * Jan. 21, 1918. Two or three days ago I received from you an admirable letter, dated December 12, and yesterday arrived our long errant Christmas mail--many trucks of it--and in it several letters from you dated about Thanksgiving. It is strange that my letters take so long to reach you, but you must have some of them by now. I certainly was glad to get ten cans of tobacco from you, I have wanted a pipe full of that excellent tobacco for months. I got a thousand stogies from Fr. Daly, a box of cigars from my father, another from John B. Kennedy and another from one Romaine Pierson, one of my father’s friends, who sent me also a large can of tobacco. Also I got a lot of jelly and candy from my mother and a little book of “Maxims of Fr. Faber” from Eleanor Rogers Cox, and enough scapulars to sink a ship. It certainly gives me the keenest delight to read your poetry. The poem about the Christmas Tree has ---- backed off the map. Also “High Heart” is very noble poetry. I envy you your power of writing poetry--I haven’t been able to write a thing since I left the ship. Also I envy you your power of being high hearted and, wholly legitimately, aware of your own high heartedness. Not that I am low spirited--I am merely busy and well-fed and contented. I am interested but not excited, and excitement is supposed to be one of war’s few charms. The contentedness is not absolute, of course, for I have, when away from you, always a consciousness of incompleteness. But I have not had the painful and dangerous times I expected to find as soon as we reached this country. I am keenly interested in the novel you and Margaret are writing. But don’t plunge too deep into occult studies in getting dope for it. Don’t attend any seance of any kind or use Planchette or try automatic writing or make any experiments of a supernatural kind. If you do, I swear that if I do get shot I won’t haunt you--and I’m conceited enough to think I can’t make a worse threat. By the way, Kenton’s suggestion that you send me a checkerboard is excellent. I’d like it very much. I love you. * * * * *