rare art; something more intellectual than a virtue. The
book has not yet made its appearance here; the Life alone, with a little
preface, is to appear in the States; and the Scribners are to send you
half the royalties. I should like it to do well, for Fleeming's sake.

Will you please send me the Greek water-carrier's song? I have a
particular use for it.

Have I any more news, I wonder?--and echo wonders along with me. I am
strangely disquieted on all political matters; and I do not know if it
is "the signs of the times" or the sign of my own time of life. But to
me the sky seems black both in France and England, and only partly clear
in America. I have not seen it so dark in my time; of that I am sure.

Please let us have some news; and excuse me, for the sake of my
well-known idleness; and pardon Fanny, who is really not very well, for
this long silence.--Very sincerely your friend,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO MISS ADELAIDE BOODLE

The lady at Bournemouth (the giver of the paper-knife) to whom the
following letter is addressed had been trusted to keep an eye on
Stevenson's interests in connection with his house (which had been
let) and other matters, and to report thereon from time to time. In
their correspondence Stevenson is generally referred to as the Squire
and the lady as the Gamekeeper.

[_Saranac Lake, December 1887._]

MY DEAR MISS BOODLE,--I am so much afraid our gamekeeper may weary of
unacknowledged reports! Hence, in the midst of a perfect horror of
detestable weathers of a quite incongruous strain, and with less desire
for correspondence than--well, than--well, with no desire for
correspondence, behold me dash into the breach. Do keep up your letters.
They are most delightful to this exiled backwoods family; and in your
next, we shall hope somehow or other to hear better news of you and
yours--that in the first place--and to hear more news of our beasts and
birds and kindly fruits of earth and those human tenants who are (truly)
too much with us.

I am very well; better than for years: that is for good. But then my
wife is no great shakes; the place does not suit her--it is my private
opinion that no place does--and she is now away down to New York for a
change, which (as Lloyd is in Boston) leaves my mother and me and
Valentine alone in our wind-beleaguered hill-top hat-box of a house. You
should hear the cows butt against the walls in the early morning