Though you sent me out here to reform me, I find the opportunities for unadulterated deviltry away ahead of Frisco.

I saw our old neighbor, King, whom you may possibly remember.

He still walks with a limp.

By the way, dad, it seems to me that when you were about twenty-five you "indulged in some damned poor pastimes," yourself.

Your dutiful son, ELLIS.
Dad never answered that letter.
Montana, as viewed from the Bay State Ranch in March, struck me as being an unholy mixture of brown, sodden hills and valleys, chill winds that never condescended to blow less than a gale, and dull, scurrying clouds, with sometimes a day of sunshine that was bright as our own sun at home.
(You can't make me believe that our California sun bothers with any other country.) I'd been used to a green world; I never would go to New York in the winter, because I hate the cold--and here I was, with the cold of New York and with none of the ameliorations in the way of clubs and theaters and the like.