Don’t you think you can get it into the Jan. and Feb. numbers and issue it as a dollar booklet just after the middle of Jan. when you issue the Feb. number?

It ought to be ably illustrated.

Why not sell simultaneous rights, for this once, to the Ladies’ Home
Journal or Collier’s, or both, and recoup yourself?—­for I would like to
get it to classes that can’t afford Harper’s.  Although it doesn’t
preach, there’s a sermon concealed in it. 
                              Yr sincerely,
          
                                   mark.

Five days later he added some rather interesting facts concerning
the new story.

To F. A. Duneka, in New York: 

Oct.  7, 1906. [’05]
Dear Mr.  Duneka,--.....   I’ve made a poor guess as to number of words. 
I think there must be 20,000.   My usual page of Ms. contains about 130
words; but when I am deeply interested in my work and dead to everything
else, my hand-writing shrinks and shrinks until there’s a great deal more
than 130 on a page—­oh, yes, a deal more.   Well, I discover, this
morning, that this tale is written in that small hand.

This strong interest is natural, for the heroine is my daughter, Susy, whom we lost.  It was not intentional—­it was a good while before I found it out.

So I am sending you her picture to use—­and to reproduce with photographic exactness the unsurpassable expression and all.  May you find an artist who has lost an idol!

Take as good care of the picture as you can and restore it to me when I come.

I hope you will illustrate this tale considerably.  Not humorous pictures.  No.  When they are good (or bad) one’s humor gets no chance to play surprises on the reader.  A humorous subject illustrated seriously is all right, but a humorous artist is no fit person for such work.  You see, the humorous writer pretends to absolute seriousness (when he knows his trade) then for an artist—­to step in and give his calculated gravity all away with a funny picture—­oh, my land!  It gives me the dry gripes just to think of it.  It would be just about up to the average comic artist’s intellectual level to make a funny picture of the horse kicking the lungs out of a trader.  Hang it, the remark is funny—­because the horse is not aware of it but the fact is not humorous, it is tragic and it is no subject for a humorous picture.

Could I be allowed to sit in judgment upon the pictures before they are accepted—­at least those in which Cathy may figure?

This is not essential.  It is but a suggestion, and it is hereby withdrawn, if it would be troublesome or cause delay.

I hope you will reproduce the cat-pile, full page.  And save the photo for me in as good condition as possible.  When Susy and Clara were little tots those cats had their profoundest worship, and there is no duplicate of this picture.  These cats all had thundering names, or inappropriate ones—­furnished by the children with my help.  One was named Buffalo Bill.