Why, of course my remarks about * * * were facetious--playful. She really is an anarchist, and her sympathies are with criminals, whom she considers the "product" of the laws, but--well, she inherited the diathesis and can no more help it than she can the color of her pretty eyes. But she is a child--and except in so far as her convictions make her impossible they do not count. She would not hurt a fly--not even if, like the toad, it had a precious jewel in its head that it did not work for. But I am speaking of the * * * that _I_ knew. If I did not know that the anarchist leopard's spots "will wash," your words would make me think that she might have changed. It does not matter what women think, if thinking it may be called, and * * * will never be other than lovable. Lest you have _not_ a copy of the verses addressed to me I enclose one that I made myself. Of course their publication could not be otherwise than pleasing to me if you care to do it. You need not fear the "splendid weight" expression, and so forth--there is nothing "conceited" in the poem. As it was addressed to me, I have not criticised it--I _can't_. And I guess it needs no criticism. I fear for the other two-thirds of this latest poem. If you descend from Arcturus to Earth, from your nebulae to your neighbors, from Life to lives, from the measureless immensities of space to the petty passions of us poor insects, won't you incur the peril of anti-climax? I doubt if you can touch the "human interest" after those high themes without an awful tumble. I should be sorry to see the poem "peter out," or "soak in." It would be as if Goethe had let his "Prologue in Heaven" expire in a coon song. You have reached the "heights of dream" all right, but how are you to stay there to the end? By the way, you must perfect yourself in Astronomy, or rather get a general knowledge of it, which I fear you lack. Be sure about the pronunciation of astronomical names. I have read some of Jack London's work and think it clever. Of Whitaker I never before heard, I fear. If London wants to criticise your "Star poem" what's the objection? I should not think, though, from his eulogism of * * *, that he is very critical. * * * Where are you to place Browning? Among thinkers. In his younger days, when he wrote in English, he stood among the poets. I remember writing once--of the thinker: "There's nothing more obscure than Browning except blacking." I'll stand to that. No, don't take the trouble to send me a copy of these verses: I expect to see them in a book pretty soon. * * * Sincerely yours, AMBROSE BIERCE. [The Olympia, Washington, D. C., March 31, 1902.] DEAR STERLING,