the impossible story to be founded on my own childish
impressions and adventures, with a few dreams
and fancies thrown in and two or three native
legends and myths, such as the one of the Lady
of the Hills, the incarnate spirit of the rocky
Sierras on the great plains, about which I heard from
my gaucho comrades when on the spot—the
strange woman seldom viewed by human eyes who is
jealous of man’s presence and is able to
create sudden violent tempests to frighten them
from her sacred haunts.
That’s the story of my story, and to the question in your publisher’s practical mind, I’m sorry to have to say I don’t know. I have no way of finding out, since children are not accustomed to write to authors to tell them what they think of their books. And after all these excuses it just occurs to me that children do not read forewords and introductions; they have to be addressed to adults who do not read children’s books, so that in any case it would be thrown away. Still if a foreword you must have, and from me, I think you will have to get it out of this letter.
I remain,
Yours cordially,
W. H. HUDSON.
November 14,1917.