Yesterday I got tight for the first time, on Bacardi. Cuban Independence day. Falling in with a flock of goats on my way home (I was trembling at what Mme. Sampsohn would say) I stubbed my toes and skinned my knee. Arrived home in a somewhat obvious condition, there was nothing to be done but have it out with Mme.... Waldo having left Tuesday night, we had it fair and square. It is now established that I can drink as much as I damned please. A couple of murdering desperadoes got loose from the penitentiary here recently--and I think she’s glad to have my company. But she’s been so damned pleasant and considerate that I haven’t any reason to think she doesn’t like me on less fearful grounds. I’m rather jealous of Mrs. T’s old love, the weather, however. Yes, Marianne [Moore] took the little specialty I wrote for her, and even proof has been corrected and sent back. This time she didn’t even suggest running the last line backward. “Again” is in the May issue; I spose you’ve seen the happy mixture. I enclose an accidental calligramme committed this morning accidentally on my way to _The Bridge_. I’m convinced that the Mango tree was the original Eden apple tree, being the first fruit tree mentioned in history with any accuracy of denomination. I’ve been having a great time reading _Atlantis in America_, the last book out on the subject, and full of exciting suggestions. Putting it back for 40 or 50 thousand years, it’s easy to believe that a continent existed in mid-Atlantic waters and that the Antilles and West Indies are but salient peaks of its surface. Impossible forever to prove, however. I’m glad that Malcolm [Cowley] has had such luck. It’s likely he’s made for life--once he enters the Lorimer field; and the articles ought to be interesting, certainly the material is. Because Poole’s book, _The Harbour_, was said to have been written while looking from the windows of 110 Col. Hts., I had the idea that it might contain something--and have just finished reading it, a thin-chested little affair if there ever was one! I wonder if McFee’s books are quite so ordinary. -- -- -- -- 246: TO HIS MOTHER [_Isle of Pines_] _June 1, 1926_