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San Francisco, 2 Aug. 1873. Dear John Muir: Though you have never written me a line since you said goodbye to my face,
yet I believe you must have found me short of the C.W.S. you had pictured, or this would not have been so. Well -- let us
begin again. Though you have not written me, dear Faun, I have often thought of you. But, John, Boy, there are more things
in heaven and earth than pine boughs - glorious, erect, resinous, glossy and treacherous as they are. As for me, I go into
the world to educate myself for the solitude that you enjoy by some right of birth which is not mine. Tell me, dear solitary,
is your soul of the glacier formation? Do you know what it is to sweat blood as I do? It seems to me, John, that your heart
is a kind of north Dome and that your Merced veins have too much of ice in them. Don't you know that my breath is like sandal-wood,
when my dear stomach is Lin order, and that my spine is nothing more than a petrified banana? But whistj.when I have run
enough of this spinning globe to give me some memories to feed on I will come to you; I have leaned toward you more than once;
you do not take me for all in all now do you? I am made up of sunsets, and sweet fruits,-is there no good in me, according
to the geologist. But I can live, and love, and suffer, and so help me God, I will, though the heavens fall, unto the end
of time. John Muir, if you are human, write to me. CHAS. WARREN STODDARD Here is my address, Care of Theo. F. Dwight,
or G.P.Putnam's Sons, New York City up to November 1873 then Care Tom Hood, No. 80, Fleet St., London, Eng. Tell Mrs. Carr
the address - and don't forget it yourself, old adamant: