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Grand Hotel, June 22, 1889. Dear Mr. Muir: Judge of my astonishment, on receiving your note on my return before 6 this
evening, to find that the hotel boy had reported you out when you were waiting in your room for me I arrived at 11:30 and
immediately sent up word that I was waiting and requesting you to come down, as the last boat for our purpose was the one
leaving at noon. I have recounted the boy's reply. I then waited till 11:45, and thinking something had detained you or that
perhaps you had misunderstood or would go at once to the boat, I scooted. It is too bad, and I blame myself for trusting to
the boy, but I'm not yet used to these queer people, and thought he'd bring me word from you that you'd be down at once. I
was greatly disappointed to miss you, and regret that you did not see me in one canyon ( Co-ed Canyon ) that had no talus.
I may not get off until Tuesday night. I hope you can conveniently go. I'll put in either Tuesday or Wednesday morning at
Sacramento, and take the following afternoon train for Chico. I'll telegraph you just before I leave, and you'll let me know
meanwhile if you can join the procession. Tell Mrs. Muir the homesickness continues --- the very blue devils: She'll know
what it means. The Snow looks well and reads well. In what other part of our country could that subject get the prominence
the Bulletin gives it? A sad comment on your snowless coast. Give Mrs. Muir my very kindest regards, and to Wanda my love.
I've taken such good care of you so far (ahem ) that I hope they'll entrust you again to me. With warm appreciation of all
your kindness, my dear Mr. Muir, believe me, Faithfully yours, R obert U nderwood Johnson