Of course your star poem has one defect--if it is a defect--that limits the circle of understanding and admiring readers--its lack of "_human_ interest." We human insects, as a rule, care for nothing but ourselves, and think that is best which most closely touches such emotions and sentiments as grow out of our relations, the one with another. I don't share the preference, and a few others do not, believing that there are things more interesting than men and women. The Heavens, for example. But who knows, or cares anything about them--even knows the name of a single constellation? Hardly any one but the professional astronomers--and there are not enough of them to buy your books and give you fame. I should be sorry not to have that poem published--sorry if you did not write more of the kind. But while it may impress and dazzle "the many" it will not win them. They want you to finger their heart-strings and pull the cord that works their arms and legs. So you must finger and pull--too. The Chateau Yquem came all right, and is good. Thank you for it--albeit I'm sorry you feel that you must do things like that. It is very conventional and, I fear, "proper." However, I remember that you used to do so when you could not by any stretch of imagination have felt that you were under an "obligation." So I guess it is all right--just your way of reminding me of the old days. Anyhow, the wine is so much better than my own that I've never a scruple when drinking it. Has "Maid Marian" a photograph of me?--I don't remember. If not I'll send her one; I've just had some printed from a negative five or six years old. I've renounced the photograph habit, as one renounces other habits when age has made them ridiculous--or impossible. Send me the typewritten book when you have it complete. Sincerely yours, AMBROSE BIERCE. [Washington, August 19, 1902.] MY DEAR STERLING, I suppose you are in Seattle, but this letter will keep till your return. I am delighted to know that I am to have "the book" so soon, and will give it my best attention and (if you still desire) some prefatory lines. Think out a good title and I shall myself be hospitable to any suggestion of my daemon in the matter. He has given me nothing for the star poem yet. * * * * * You'll "learn in suffering what you teach in song," all right; but let us hope the song will be the richer for it. It _will_ be. For that reason I never altogether "pity the sorrows" of a writer--knowing they are good for him. He needs them in his business. I suspect you must have shed a tear or two since I knew you. I'm sending you a photograph, but you did not tell me if Maid Marian the Superb already has one--that's what I asked you, and if you don't answer I shall ask her. * * * * * Yes, I am fairly well, and, though not "happy," content. But I'm dreadfully sorry about Peterson. Sincerely yours, AMBROSE BIERCE.