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  Dear Walt,

Your seasons outlast mine. Your book, a gift always to be handed down & treasured by my clan, reached me on my 55th birthday, and made me wonder that your November Boughs still hang so rich with color, while my October Leaves are already pale and wilted.—I am very   grateful for your rememberance, & touched by it withal. In many respects this collection (so strikingly & fittingly put up) is one of the most significant—as it is the most various—of your enduring works. Rest tranquil, as you ever are, in the ripeness of your harvest & fame,—well assured that, whether your pilgrimage is still to be long or brief, you "shall not wholly die".—I am always more and more your reader, and

Your attached friend, Edmund C. Stedman