Will I be so kind as to send you “one small scrap of Scenery” for your album, with my autograph? Indeed I will—&Ⓐemendation no stale scenery either. I will go to the window &Ⓐemendation get it fresh—to wit,

Two thirds of the roof of our stable is covered with snow, &Ⓐemendation pretty deeply, too. In one place the telephone wire running along six inches above the comb is covered. Towards this end of the roof the slates show &Ⓐemendation vapory films of snow are whisking about the eaves &Ⓐemendation scudding away on the air—which means that there’s wind blowing out yonder: &Ⓐemendation it’s a bitter one, too. Now we go to the other window: miles of white hills &Ⓐemendation plains &Ⓐemendation leafless, shivery limbs. In the distance I see two boys with caps down over their ears &Ⓐemendation their red comforters streaming out behind, skating up against the blast on the little river. Poor little chaps, they think this is fun! When they get abreast here, where the river curves around under the window, I will step out &Ⓐemendation shoot them &Ⓐemendation put them out of their misery.

There—let’s stop with that. This scenery is too chilly. It is better here in the room. I’ve got a noble wood fire going—that is, part of it is wood. The back log is a plumber. He came up here &Ⓐemendation interrupted me when I was writing about the scenery. Whenever you catch a plumber, you just make a back-log of him: I always do. Ignorant people say a plumber isn’t useful—this is because they do not know how to apply a plumber. Nothing is made in vain—don’t you forget that.

I’ve got nine hundred pages of manuscript stacked here before me; &Ⓐemendation when I finish writing to you I will add about ten pages of historical notes to that pile (to give it style) &Ⓐemendation that book will be finished. I will publish it next November, &Ⓐemendation call it, The Prince & the PauperⒶemendation. I like this tale better than Tom SawyerⒶemendation—because I haven’t put any fun in it. I think that is why I like it better. You know a body always enjoys seeing himself attempting something out of his line.

Certainly I will send you my photograph; &Ⓐemendation with great pleasure, too. I wonder if Mr. McLeod would accept one, too? Well, I’ll put one in &Ⓐemendation we’ll try anyway; for his letter was a great pleasure to me &Ⓐemendation I am very much obliged to you for sending it. Won’t you please ask him to accept it. It has a suffering expression, but still it is very good: It shows me in the act of trying to tell the truth.

Yes, I was coming to Sydney: but now there’s a new baby down stairs. Consequently I have got to put that off a few years. Little chaps like that, can’t be comfortable on long journeys, you know.

Mr. McLeod must get one of these American pens—the “Stylographic” or the “Mackinnan.” The shaft of it holds ink enough to last for three weeks. We’ve thrown all our ink stands away—threw them at passing plumbers. Dear me, I wonder where plumbers go?