My book arrived well-packaged.  Loopy, slapdash script in a fat-tip Sharpie proclaimed “requested” across the white space of a tightly-furled bubble mailer.  Straight from the publisher; “requested” indeed.  The book is very pretty: a smooth, satisfying tactile dust jacket colored in shades of sepia; Frederick Olmsted’s portrait leans like a pensive shadow, a believable amount of grain gently hazing his features.  I like the creeping ivy overlaid on the spine.  Ladies and Gentlemen, I have arrived.