The box came yesterday, & I enclose check—at least I mean to, though one of the hardest things in this life to remember is to enclose a thing—even a dog—in the letter one is writing. It most always goes in another envelop, half an hour later, tottering under a load of profanity which runs it aground at the postoffice for insufficient postage. The hair restorer (is that what it is?) is very welcome, indeed, & Mrs. Clemens is greatly obliged. It is in giood time, for Mrs. Clemens is abed yet & can’t go to restoring till she is up; the baby was born well fixed on top; & the thing I need is something that will make the hair come out. Mrs. Clemens told me some days ago to tell Mrs. Howells she is keeping her hair unparted, all through this fer episode, for her wise advice’s sake.

I have been thinking things over, & have changed my mind to this complexion: I would rather the N. Y. Times & all the other journals would copy my stuff—it keeps a body more alive & known to the broad & general public, for the Atlantic only only goes to only (dam that “Boston Girl”) the select high few. Yes, I would rather write for the modester wage of one whose articles increase not the subscription list, & then be copied in the general press; for I should find my vast reward in the augmented sales of my books. However, maybe they do copy—hope they do—for I have this moment opened a letter from Michigan which speaks of reading “Benton & Mills” in the Yonkers Gazette; but all the other letters which have come to me shouting the praises of that little moral tale (lord, how inscrutably constructed we are!—I never really expected you to print that article; so when I came to, after you accepted it, I said to myself, “All right, if he wants all the pious people after his scalp, let him go ahead—it will be a spectacle not without interest”)—have spoken of seeing it in the Atlantic. By-the-way, these praiseful letters have usually come from strong church-members—think of that!—& they take me to be one—think also of that! Blame it, they are they are the very people I expected to make skip around & cuss. I will enclose this last one to let you see—you can read it, then throw it away.

We all vote that the baby its is the prettiest & perfectest little creature we have turned out yet. Susie & Bay could not worship it more if it were a cat—& the same formula will fit my case. Livy is doing finely.

Whilst not working—for one can’t work during a lying-in season—I have written 60 pages of the most ridiculous stuff—burlesque foreign travel, steeped in complacency & placid ignorance—& I mean to go along & see how it comes out.