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It is 2.20 P.M. I am writing at the desk in my office. It is so dark that I almost need the gas to see to write. Outside the rain pours down, the sky is a dark leaden gray. This kind of thing has gone on for about two weeks now and is getting a little monotonous. The bundle of ad's came this morning, I shall send them to friends as I write. Do you read R.L. Stevenson? If so get the "Master of Ballantrae," I am in the middle of it, it is first rate—a regular Xmas story lots of adventure and old-fashioned hair breadth escapes. Willy Gurd is not home yet and no word of him, I expect him almost every train now. Mrs. B is still in  Detroit, will probably return home tomorrow. We are having 4 evenings a week amusements at the Asylum—one lecture each week among them. It keeps us all going I am in the middle of getting new scenery for our new amusement hall. When it is done we shall have as good a drop curtain and as good scenery as in the Opera House in London here! Have just heard from Willy Gurd (mail just in) he will not be home to Xmas, is in N.Y. submitting the meter to the N.Y. gas co. I do not know what he expects to come of this—he will likely be home before New Years

Your friend R M Bucke