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Ruth zooms ahead. Her work on the Scholastic pays her 50% more this year, her unclear-games? are being sold, and she has four stories contracted for with children's magazines elsewhere. If I had her energy, I'd be on top of the heap. While we still can't afford a maid, we have the janitor's wife helping some every day, so that Ruth is freer than ever, with the brats less and less trouble. I wish I could free her altogether, but I seem to be helpless between the U. and the writing that perhaps I too selfishly persist in. Still, she wouldn't have it any other way, and I'd be desperately unhappy writing pot-boilers. I've been in town all summer except for four days when I got out for a little fishing and tramping in the woods. Never again will I subject myself to the city for so long. The pound takes the place of your pulse after a while. But maybe it has trained me for a city novel. Something of the sort, of a rather experimental kind, seems next? Best thing you've done in some time it seemed to me - that story Death in the Woods - in a recent unclear.