I thank you many times for the picture, which is a monstrous good picture, whatever its shortcomings as a portrait may be. On the authority of the great art critic, Leigh Bierce, I am emboldened to pronounce some of the work in it equal to Gribayedoff at his best; and that, according to the g. a. c. aforesaid, is to exhaust eulogium. But--it isn't altogether the Blanche that I know, as I know her. Maybe it is the hat--I should prefer you hatless, and so less at the mercy of capricious fortune. Suppose hats were to "go out"--I tremble to think of what would happen to that gorgeous superstructure which now looks so beautiful. O, well, when I come down I shall drag you to the hateful photographer and get something that looks quite like you--and has no other value. And I mean to "see Oakland and die" pretty soon. I have not dared go when the weather was bad. It promises well now, but I am to have visitors next Sunday, so must stay at home. God and the weather bureau willing, you may be bothered with me the Saturday or Sunday after. We shall see. I hope your father concurs in my remarks on picture "borders"--I did not think of him until the remarks had been written, or I should have assured myself of his practice before venturing to utter my mind o' the matter. If it were not for him and Gertrude and the _Wave_ I should snarl again, anent "half-tones," which I abhor. Hume tried to get me to admire his illustrations, but I would not, so far as the process is concerned, and bluntly told him he would not get your father's best work that way. If you were to visit the Mountain now I should be able to show you a redwood forest (newly discovered) and a picturesque gulch to match. The wild flowers are beginning to put up their heads to look for you, and my collection of Indian antiquities is yearning to have you see it. Please convey my thanks to Richard for the picture--the girlscape--and my best regards to your father and all the others. Sincerely your friend, AMBROSE BIERCE. [Angwin, February 21, 1893.] MY DEAR BLANCHE, I'm very sorry indeed that I cannot be in Oakland Thursday evening to see you "in your glory," arrayed, doubtless, like a lily of the field. However glorious you may be in public, though, I fancy I should like you better as you used to be out at camp. Well, I mean to see you on Saturday afternoon if you are at home, and think I shall ask you to be my guide to Grizzlyville; for surely I shall never be able to find the wonderful new house alone. So if your mamma will let you go out there with me I promise to return you to her instead of running away with you. And, possibly, weather permitting, we can arrange for a Sunday in the redwoods or on the hills. Or don't your folks go out any more o' Sundays?