I’ve wondered why I didn’t hear from you, but I discover that I’ve only got about half my letters in Cuba; the Havana post office is in the dirty habit of opening American mail to extract money, when it thinks there is any currency inside. Maybe you didn’t get what I sent you. _White Buildings_ will be out in Dec. I’m having Laukhuff send you a copy. 265: TO WALDO FRANK _Patterson_ _Nov. 21st_ Caro hermano: I am hoping that your country retreat is as pleasant to you as mine is to me.... It seems marvelous to sleep again, buried under the sound of an autumn wind--and to wake with the sense of the faculties being on the mend. Now I can look back and enjoy “every moment” of the summer Carib days,--so gracious is the memory in preserving most carefully the record of our pleasures, _their_ real savor, _only_. When are you coming back to town? Will you for a moment consider coming out here for a week-end (or longer) sometime before you leave for Europe? It would be pleasant and quiet, and the country is still interesting if one doesn’t demand too much tropical splendor. We could have the good deliberate talk that we couldn’t get in NY, of course. Haven’t got my book yet, but expect it next week. Nor am I at work yet on _The Bridge_ again.... But I’m not worried. I know too well what I want to do now, even if it doesn’t spill over for months and months. It must “spill,” you know. The little thing above I did yesterday.[53] Write me when you have time. Aunt Sally sends you her best (sometimes “love”!) in her every letter. Williams’ _American Grain_ is an achievement that I’d be proud of. A most important and _sincere_ book. I’m very enthusiastic--I put off reading it, you know, until I felt my own way cleared beyond chance of confusions incident to reading a book so intimate to my theme. I was so interested to note that he puts Poe and his “character” in the same position as I had _symbolized_ for him in “The Tunnel” section. 266: TO MRS. T. W. SIMPSON _Patterson, N.Y._ _December 5th, 1926_ Dear Aunt Sally: From hurricane to Blizzards--all in six weeks! The fates sure do give me immoderate changes. It’s “two below naught” outside, as they say in Hicksville; snowdrifts on the hills and windows, and my room isn’t so warm but what tickling the typewriter keys is a stiff proposition. My nose got so cold last night it kept me awake, besides I could hear the congealing water click into ice in the pitcher on the washstand, ticking, ticking--every few moments. But my kerosene stoves are doing better than last winter--better oil, and I think with considerable economy I’ll be able to finish the winter here, if I’m not called back to Cleveland. Utter silence, by the way, from that quarter. It will make it a month since I heard from mother, who evidently is displeased. It certainly is too bad that she doesn’t write you; I guess she is in a pretty disorganized state of mind.