The first page contains a quotation from a letter to you from an insect known as a “literary agent.” Dear Carrie, listen to the chirp of the crickets on the mountain, but don’t pay any attention to the noise of that tribe. I am fortunate enough not to know this particular duffer that has written such “piffle” (as they say in Chicago), but I’ve heard about him—and you cut him out. He’s an insufferable, measly kid, at the Sweet Caporal cigarette age, and his graft is to stuff you provincial writers (I’m speaking impersonally now) with his taffy so he can get your stuff to peddle around. Don’t you believe his trick; and you quit sending him your stuff. He’s trying to make you think you’ve got George Eliot and Mrs. Humphry Ward beat to a batter, when you know yourself it ain’t so. Isn’t that a sage, oh, what a wonderfully sage remark when he says “you must write your best!” Don’t you believe “that the editors are asking about you constantly, and are more than anxious to see your work.” It’s not so. Now get mad again, and when that old-time smile comes back, read on further. Mein Gott! what a recollection you have of me! “A tall, slender lad with nice eyes—awfully quiet, and——Oh, I’ll admit the exceedingly fond.” Was it a mystery why? Well, I dunno, except because you were so sweet and devilish. To-day I am as slender as anybody five feet eight and weighing 175 pounds could be, and I’ve sharp, mean eyes. (I told Bobby that he had nice eyes because I couldn’t remember the colour.) I’ve been taken for a detective lots of times, but I haven’t changed so much inside, and if you were on the twentieth floor of the Waldorf-Astoria to-night, and had a string long enough, I’ll bet I’d have a magnolia or two and a box of candy to tie to the end of it. You speak of meeting old Tom in your letter. Well, just a few days afterward I got a letter from him talking about old days. Said he’d been in New York often and might be back. Lordy! I’d like to see him again. (Back in the old days at Roseboro Tom was one of the whistlers under my window the night I got the magnolias.) Well, now, Carrie, what do _you_ care if Tom pays attention to somebody and likes her? Ain’t that the only thing there is that’s worth two cents? Doesn’t the gentleman that takes you out driving and boat riding ever—ever—talk about how nice the moon looks? Oh, Carrie, never get so you feel like running down such foolishness. After everything is added and subtracted, _that_ is the only remainder.