To Illoi fm Hucas.

When I described to Maple-leaf the paste you still live offof (O and I Do remember)she was happy to send these Meat Wraps.

Sir Ray refuses to sell any slaves to the mines or the hospitals or the army, so Negasa Hill teems with us all. And, of course, half of them are female. Slightly more than half, at that. And who is it that moans critiques of women? Who is it who cannot appreciate the little queens around him? Not always queens of his realm, but a fine sojourning alien a man can make.

I am not ashamed of it: it is true: having subsisted so long in the desert of femininity that is Tracking, I am not of-the-world enough to scorn any women: none here are beneath my delight. And most of them think me such a sweet old fellow! They have the most enchanting names. I feel as though I’m living in some sort of pastoral song peopled with brief-skirted nymphs (with Negasa the land of all hills & rocks, insects & animals, and trees bending and whishing in the endless wind). It’s a Quiet life, too. Imagine being around young girls with long hair & long legs, flitting about, who are called Moorwind & Waterfly, and Miracle, and Dragging-Tail & Applefang. I do not lie. Do you suppose I could make this sort of magic up? And Nothing Lacking. There’s a creek that cuts the eastern portion of Negasa that’s (blest be ruthlessness!) Inexorably Frigid.