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Thank you, my boy, for your nice hearty letters. I wish I could go out to see
you at once, but I must do one more lap on this story4 or it will get away from me. I am
turning a hard corner in it just now and must get it turned before I quit. I
am never afraid to leave a story when it is going well, but it is bad policy
to leave it when it is hardening up on me—takes too much energy to make it
loosen up later. But I do think I will get
to you in July, but you must never kill any fatted calf for me–unless you
have plenty of cold storage! If one will have an uncertain job like writing,
one has to be governed a good deal by its uncertainties. On Sunday I am
going up to Maine5 to spend a week with Mme.
Fremstad6, the opera singer, in her camp7. I had not expected to do this, but it is the
first summer that she has spent in this country8 in many years, and goodness knows when she will be
here again. So I had better get her while I can. She is a combination that
the Lord must have made to interest me even more than she does the rest of
the world. The greatest artist of her time—which interests everyone—and a
Swede off the Divide9, "all same
yense", which interests me most of all. When I was ten years old I knew that
a great artist, a new kind of artist, would come out of "the old peoples in
a new world", and it has been a fine adventure to see that belief realized.
But I will tell you about all those things when I see you. I am perfectly
well again. Indeed I do want to see Meta10 and the little Virginia11. Now I'm off on "the long
trail, the trail that is always new"12 —human people—most
interesting things God made—beat the Grand
Canyon13!