If on my return I find myself let in for this epidemic, which seems highly calculated to nip me in the bud, I shall feel very much inclined to make the experiment. See what a gulf you may save me from if you shall have previously made it on _anima vili_, on some less important sufferer, and shall have found it worse than useless. How is Miss Boodle and her family? Greeting to your brother and all friends in Bournemouth.--Yours very sincerely, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. TO CHARLES BAXTER After a stay of four or five weeks at Apia, during which he had fallen more and more in love with Samoa and the Samoans, Stevenson took steamer again, this time for Sydney, where he had ordered his letters to await him. This and the two following letters were written during the passage. I again print in their original place a set of verses separately published in _Songs of Travel_. _Februar den 3en 1890 Dampfer Luebeck, zwischen Apia und Sydney._ MY DEAR CHARLES,--I have got one delightful letter from you, and heard from my mother of your kindness in going to see her. Thank you for that: you can in no way more touch and serve me.... Ay, ay, it is sad to sell 17; sad and fine were the old days: when I was away in Apemama, I wrote two copies of verse about Edinburgh and the past, so ink black, so golden bright. I will send them, if I can find them, for they will say something to you, and indeed one is more than half addressed to you. This is it-- TO MY OLD COMRADES Do you remember--can we e'er forget?-- How, in the coiled perplexities of youth, In our wild climate, in our scowling town, We gloomed and shivered, sorrowed, sobbed, and feared? The belching winter wind, the missile rain, The rare and welcome silence of the snows, The laggard morn, the haggard day, the night, The grimy spell of the nocturnal town, Do you remember?--Ah, could one forget! As when the fevered sick that all night long Listed the wind intone, and hear at last The ever-welcome voice of the chanticleer Sing in the bitter hour before the dawn,-- With sudden ardour, these desire the day: (Here a squall sends all flying.)