Transcription:
Feb. 13, 1881. My dear Mr. Muir: Are you In San Fran. or in Alaska I wonder, and do you ever think of your worldly friends,
away up there among your ice mountains. It is a long time since we have heard from you, and a longer still since you have
had word of us, I fancy, and still we are all the same, a little older possibly, and a little wiser? Perhaps. I have been
talking of you of late a good deal, and the other day got out your letters and read them to a lady staying with us, and it
has made me wish very much for some more of the same sort. Can you write such lovely out of door letters now, or has contact
with human nature taken off the natural freshness of your soul, and made you more like other people? Just like anybody else
you could never be, but I have always feared for you, when the time came for you to go into the world. We see your name now
and then, and read something of yours too, but California and nearly all our friends seem to be a long way off, since our
trip to Europe. Mrs. Day is the only one who brings it near. We still talk of returning one of these days, and hope next winter
will bring it about, but life is uncertain, and we are not all as young as we used to be, particularly father, and we mustn't
make plans too far ahead. We came home from our two years wanderings, last September, improved in health and mind, both boys
grown men, with no thought but for business, and Louise a full fledged young lady. You would not know any of us now, I think.
Perhaps father and I have not changed so much, butHarry is bald and wears side whiskers, and Rob measures six feet and hasa
sort of a moustache. I do not hear of your book in all these days, have you given it to the publisher during our absence?
Have you given up your home in Yosemite? You will always belong to The Valley, I think. I cannot think of one without the
other, yet they tell me it is not now the same,that stages run there, and it is no longer out of the world. Alas the march
of civilization has many drawbacks, at least for the few. Two years of foreign life, has given me back my health, and I no
longer look upon life as a burden, but I need one of your fresh breezy letters just thesame, and do not be long in writing,
or rather in the waiting before you write. I write you, you see, as if you were not one bit changed since the old times, and
I do not know but you may have settled down to a fireside of your own, with wife and family. Whichever way it may be, I hopelife
is real and happy for you, as it is for us. All join in kindest regards. Yours sincerely, Anne W. Cheney