Fickle Fortune, or How Gladys Hustled

Fickle Fortune, or How Gladys Hustled

[From The Rolling Stone.]

"Press me no more Mr. Snooper," said Gladys Vavasour-Smith. "I can never
be yours."

"You have led me to believe different, Gladys," said Bertram D. Snooper.

The setting sun was flooding with golden light the oriel windows of a
magnificent mansion situated in one of the most aristocratic streets
west of the brick yard.

Bertram D. Snooper, a poor but ambitious and talented young lawyer, had
just lost his first suit. He had dared to aspire to the hand of Gladys
Vavasour-Smith, the beautiful and talented daughter of one of the oldest
and proudest families in the county. The bluest blood flowed in her
veins. Her grandfather had sawed wood for the Hornsbys and an aunt on
her mother's side had married a man who had been kicked by General Lee's
mule.

The lines about Bertram D. Snooper's hands and mouth were drawn tighter
as he paced to and fro, waiting for a reply to the question he intended
to ask Gladys as soon as he thought of one.

At last an idea occurred to him.

"Why will you not marry me?" he asked in an inaudible tone.

"Because," said Gladys firmly, speaking easily with great difficulty,
"the progression and enlightenment that the woman of to-day possesses
demand that the man shall bring to the marriage altar a heart and body
as free from the debasing and hereditary iniquities that now no longer
exist except in the chimerical imagination of enslaved custom."

"It is as I expected," said Bertram, wiping his heated brow on the
window curtain. "You have been reading books."

"Besides that," continued Gladys, ignoring the deadly charge, "you have
no money."

The blood of the Snoopers rose hastily and mantled the cheek of Bertram
D. He put on his coat and moved proudly to the door.

"Stay here till I return," he said, "I will be back in fifteen years."

When he had finished speaking he ceased and left the room.

When he had gone, Gladys felt an uncontrollable yearning take possession
of her. She said slowly, rather to herself than for publication, "I
wonder if there was any of that cold cabbage left from dinner."

She then left the room.

When she did so, a dark-complexioned man with black hair and gloomy,
desperate looking clothes, came out of the fireplace where he had been
concealed and stated:

"Aha! I have you in my power at last, Bertram D. Snooper. Gladys
Vavasour-Smith shall be mine. I am in the possession of secrets that not
a soul in the world suspects. I have papers to prove that Bertram
Snooper is the heir to the [Footnote: An estate famous in Texas legal
history. It took many, many years for adjustment and a large part of the
property was, of course, consumed as expenses of litigation.] Tom Bean
estate, and I have discovered that Gladys' grandfather who sawed wood
for the Hornsby's was also a cook in Major Rhoads Fisher's command
during the war. Therefore, the family repudiate her, and she will marry
me in order to drag their proud name down in the dust. Ha, ha, ha!"

As the reader has doubtless long ago discovered, this man was no other
than Henry R. Grasty. Mr. Grasty then proceeded to gloat some more, and
then with a sardonic laugh left for New York.

* * * *

Fifteen years have elapsed.

Of course, our readers will understand that this is only supposed to the
the case.

It really took less than a minute to make the little stars that
represent an interval of time.

We could not afford to stop a piece in the middle and wait fifteen years
before continuing it.

We hope this explanation will suffice. We are careful not to create any
wrong impressions.

Gladys Vavasour-Smith and Henry R. Grasty stood at the marriage altar.

Mr. Grasty had evidently worked his rabbit's foot successfully, although
he was quite a while in doing so.

Just as the preacher was about to pronounce the fatal words on which he
would have realized ten dollars and had the laugh on Mr. Grasty, the
steeple of the church fell off and Bertram D. Snooper entered.

The preacher fell to the ground with a dull thud. He could ill afford to
lose ten dollars. He was hastily removed and a cheaper one secured.

Bertram D. Snooper held a Statesman in his hand.

"Aha!" he said, "I thought I would surprise you. I just got in this
morning. Here is a paper noticing my arrival."

He handed it to Henry R. Grasty.

Mr. Grasty looked at the paper and turned deadly pale. It was dated
three weeks after Mr. Snooper's arrival.

"Foiled again!" he hissed.

"Speak, Bertram D. Snooper," said Gladys, "why have you come between me
and Henry?"

"I have just discovered that I am the sole heir to Tom Bean's estate and
am worth two million dollars."

With a glad cry Gladys threw herself in Bertram's arms.

Henry R. Grasty drew from his breast pocket a large tin box and opened
it, took therefrom 467 pages of closely written foolscap.

"What you say is true, Mr. Snooper, but I ask you to read that," he
said, handing it to Bertram Snooper.

Mr. Snooper had no sooner read the document than he uttered a piercing
shriek and bit off a large chew of tobacco.

"All is lost," he said.

"What is that document?" asked Gladys. "Governor Hogg's message?"

"It is not as bad as that," said Bertram, "but it deprives me of my
entire fortune. But I care not for that, Gladys, since I have won you."

"What is it? Speak, I implore you," said Gladys.

"Those papers," said Henry R. Grasty, "are the proofs of my appointment
as administrator of the Tom Bean estate."

With a loving cry Gladys threw herself in Henry R. Grasty's arms.

* * * *

Twenty minutes later Bertram D. Snooper was seen
deliberately to enter a beer saloon on Seventeenth Street.

AN APOLOGY

[This appeared in The Rolling Stone shortly before it
"suspended publication" never to resume.]

The person who sweeps the office, translates letters from foreign
countries, deciphers communications from graduates of business colleges,
and does most of the writing for this paper, has been confined for the
past two weeks to the under side of a large red quilt, with a joint
caucus of la grippe and measles.

We have missed two issues of The Rolling Stone, and are now slightly
convalescent, for which we desire to apologize and express our regrets.

Everybody's term of subscription will be extended enough to cover all
missed issues, and we hope soon to report that the goose remains
suspended at a favorable altitude. People who have tried to run a funny
paper and entertain a congregation of large piebald measles at the same
time will understand something of the tact, finesse, and hot sassafras
tea required to do so. We expect to get out the paper regularly from
this time on, but are forced to be very careful, as improper treatment
and deleterious after-effects of measles, combined with the high price
of paper and presswork, have been known to cause a relapse. Any one not
getting their paper regularly will please come down and see about it,
bringing with them a ham or any little delicacy relished by invalids.

LORD OAKHURST'S CURSE

[This story was sent to Dr. Beall of Greensboro, N. C., in a letter in
1883, and so is one of O. Henry's earliest attempts at writing.]

I

Lord Oakhurst lay dying in the oak chamber in the eastern wing of
Oakhurst Castle. Through the open window in the calm of the summer
evening, came the sweet fragrance of the early violets and budding
trees, and to the dying man it seemed as if earth's loveliness and
beauty were never so apparent as on this bright June day, his last day
of life.

His young wife, whom he loved with a devotion and strength that the
presence of the king of terrors himself could not alter, moved about the
apartment, weeping and sorrowful, sometimes arranging the sick man's
pillow and inquiring of him in low, mournful tones if anything could be
done to give him comfort, and again, with stifled sobs, eating some
chocolate caramels which she carried in the pocket of her apron. The
servants went to and fro with that quiet and subdued tread which
prevails in a house where death is an expected guest, and even the crash
of broken china and shivered glass, which announced their approach,
seemed to fall upon the ear with less violence and sound than usual.

Lord Oakhurst was thinking of days gone by, when he wooed and won his
beautiful young wife, who was then but a charming and innocent girl. How
clearly and minutely those scenes rose up at the call of his memory. He
seemed to be standing once more beneath the old chestnut grove where
they had plighted their troth in the twilight under the stars; while the
rare fragrance of the June roses and the smell of supper came gently by
on the breeze. There he had told her his love; how that his whole
happiness and future joy lay in the hope that he might win her for a
bride; that if she would trust her future to his care the devotedness of
his lifetime should be hers, and his only thought would be to make her
life one long day of sunshine and peanut candy.

How plainly he remembered how she had, with girlish shyness and coyness,
at first hesitated, and murmured something to herself about "an old
bald-beaded galoot," but when he told her that to him life without her
would be a blasted mockery, and that his income was £50,000 a year, she
threw herself on to him and froze there with the tenacity of a tick on a
brindled cow, and said, with tears of joy, "Hen-ery, I am thine."

And now he was dying. In a few short hours his spirit would rise up at
the call of the Destroyer and, quitting his poor, weak, earthly frame,
would go forth into that dim and dreaded Unknown Land, and solve with
certainty that Mystery which revealeth itself not to mortal man.

II

A carriage drove rapidly up the avenue and stopped at the door. Sir
Everhard FitzArmond, the famous London physician, who had been
telegraphed for, alighted and quickly ascended the marble steps. Lady
Oakhurst met him at the door, her lovely face expressing great anxiety
and grief. "Oh, Sir Everhard, I am so glad you have come. He seems to be
sinking rapidly. Did you bring the cream almonds I mentioned in the
telegram?"

Sir Everhard did not reply, but silently handed her a package, and,
slipping a couple of cloves into his mouth, ascended the stairs that led
to Lord Oakhurst's apartment. Lady Oakhurst followed.

Sir Everhard approached the bedside of his patient and laid his hand
gently on this sick man's diagnosis. A shade of feeling passed over his
professional countenance as lie gravely and solemnly pronounced these
words: "Madam, your husband has croaked."

Lady Oakhurst at first did not comprehend his technical language, and
her lovely mouth let up for a moment on the cream almonds. But soon his
meaning flashed upon her, and she seized an axe that her husband was
accustomed to keep by his bedside to mangle his servants with, and
struck open Lord Oakhurst's cabinet containing his private papers, and
with eager hands opened the document which she took therefrom. Then,
with a wild, unearthly shriek that would have made a steam piano go out
behind a barn and kick itself in despair, she fell senseless to the
floor.

Sir Everhard FitzArmond picked up the paper and read its contents. It
was Lord Oakhurst's will, bequeathing all his property to a scientific
institution which should have for its object the invention of a means
for extracting peach brandy from sawdust.

Sir Everhard glanced quickly around the room. No one was in sight.
Dropping the will, he rapidly transferred some valuable ornaments and
rare specimens of gold and silver filigree work from the centre table to
his pockets, and rang the bell for the servants.

III--THE CURSE

Sir Everhard FitzArmond descended the stairway of Oakhurst Castle and
passed out into the avenue that led from the doorway to the great iron
gates of the park. Lord Oakhurst had been a great sportsman during his
life and always kept a well-stocked kennel of curs, which now rushed out
from their hiding places and with loud yelps sprang upon the physician,
burying their fangs in his lower limbs and seriously damaging his
apparel.

Sir Everllard, startled out of his professional dignity and usual
indifference to human suffering, by the personal application of feeling,
gave vent to a most horrible and blighting CURSE and ran with great
swiftness to his carriage and drove off toward the city.

BEXAR SCRIP NO. 2692

[From The Rolling Stone, Saturday, March 5, 1894.]

Whenever you visit Austin you should by all means go to see the General
Land Office.

As you pass up the avenue you turn sharp round the corner of the court
house, and on a steep hill before you you see a medieval castle.

You think of the Rhine; the "castled crag of Drachenfels"; the Lorelei;
and the vine-clad slopes of Germany. And German it is in every line of
its architecture and design.

The plan was drawn by an old draftsman from the "Vaterland," whose heart
still loved the scenes of his native land, and it is said he reproduced
the design of a certain castle near his birthplace, with remarkable
fidelity.

Under the present administration a new coat of paint has vulgarized its
ancient and venerable walls. Modern tiles have replaced the limestone
slabs of its floors, worn in hollows by the tread of thousands of feet,
and smart and gaudy fixtures have usurped the place of the time-worn
furniture that has been consecrated by the touch of hands that Texas
will never cease to honor.

But even now, when you enter the building, you lower your voice, and
time turns backward for you, for the atmosphere which you breathe is
cold with the exudation of buried generations.

The building is stone with a coating of concrete; the walls are
immensely thick; it is cool in the summer and warm in the winter; it is
isolated and sombre; standing apart from the other state buildings,
sullen and decaying, brooding on the past.

Twenty years ago it was much the same as now; twenty years from now the
garish newness will be worn off and it will return to its appearance of
gloomy decadence.

People living in other states can form no conception of the vastness and
importance of the work performed and the significance of the millions of
records and papers composing the archives of this office.

The title deeds, patents, transfers and legal documents connected with
every foot of land owned in the state of Texas are filed here.

Volumes could be filled with accounts of the knavery, the
double-dealing, the cross purposes, the perjury, the lies, the bribery,
the alteration and erasing, the suppressing and destroying of papers,
the various schemes and plots that for the sake of the almighty dollar
have left their stains upon the records of the General Land Office.

No reference is made to the employees. No more faithful, competent and
efficient force of men exists in the clerical portions of any
government, but there is--or was, for their day is now over--a class of
land speculators commonly called land sharks, unscrupulous and greedy,
who have left their trail in every department of this office, in the
shape of titles destroyed, patents cancelled, homes demolished and torn
away, forged transfers and lying affidavits.

Before the modern tiles were laid upon the floors, there were deep
hollows in the limestone slabs, worn by the countless feet that daily
trod uneasily through its echoing corridors, pressing from file room to
business room, from commissioner's sanctum to record books and back
again.

The honest but ignorant settler, bent on saving the little plot of land
he called home, elbowed the wary land shark who was searching the
records for evidence to oust him; the lordly cattle baron, relying on
his influence and money, stood at the Commissioner's desk side by side
with the preemptor, whose little potato patch lay like a minute speck of
island in the vast, billowy sea, of his princely pastures, and played
the old game of "freeze-out," which is as old as Cain and Abel.

The trail of the serpent is through it all.

Honest, earnest men have wrought for generations striving to disentangle
the shameful coil that certain years of fraud and infamy have wound.
Look at the files and see the countless endorsements of those in
authority

"Transfer doubtful--locked up."

"Certificate a forgery--locked up."

"Signature a forgery."

"Patent refused--duplicate patented elsewhere."

"Field notes forged."

"Certificates stolen from office"--and soon ad infinitum.

The record books, spread upon long tables, in the big room upstairs, are
open to the examination of all. Open them, and you will find the dark
and greasy finger prints of half a century's handling. The quick hand of
the land grabber has fluttered the leaves a million times; the damp
clutch of the perturbed tiller of the soil has left traces of his
calling on the ragged leaves.

Interest centres in the file room.

This is a large room, built as a vault, fireproof, and entered by but a
single door.

There is "No Admission" on the portal; and the precious files are handed
out by a clerk in charge only on presentation of an order signed by the
Commissioner or chief clerk.

In years past too much laxity prevailed in its management, and the files
were handled by all corners, simply on their request, and returned at
their will, or not at all.

In these days most of the mischief was done. In the file room, there are
about ---- files, each in a paper wrapper, and comprising the title
papers of a particular tract of land.

You ask the clerk in charge for the papers relating to any survey in
Texas. They are arranged simply in districts and numbers.

He disappears from the door, you hear the sliding of a tin box, the lid
snaps, and the file is in your hand.

Go up there some day and call for Bexar Scrip No. 2692.

The file clerk stares at you for a second, says shortly:

"Out of file."

It has been missing twenty years.

The history of that file has never been written before.

Twenty years ago there was a shrewd land agent living in Austin who
devoted his undoubted talents and vast knowledge of land titles, and the
laws governing them, to the locating of surveys made by illegal
certificates, or improperly made, and otherwise of no value through
non-compliance with the statutes, or whatever flaws his ingenious and
unscrupulous mind could unearth.

He found a fatal defect in the title of the land as on file in Bexar
Scrip No. 2692 and placed a new certificate upon the survey in his own
name.

The law was on his side.

Every sentiment of justice, of right, and humanity was against him.

The certificate by virtue of which the original survey had been made was
missing.

It was not be found in the file, and no memorandum or date on the
wrapper to show that it had ever been filed.

Under the law the land was vacant, unappropriated public domain, and
open to location.

The land was occupied by a widow and her only son, and she supposed her
title good.

The railroad had surveyed a new line through the property, and it had
doubled in value.

Sharp, the land agent, did not communicate with her in any way until he
had filed his papers, rushed his claim through the departments and into
the patent room for patenting.

Then he wrote her a letter, offering her the choice of buying from him
or vacating at once.

He received no reply.

One day he was looking through some files and came across the missing
certificate. Some one, probably an employee of the office, had by
mistake, after making some examination, placed it in the wrong file, and
curiously enough another inadvertence, in there being no record of its
filing on the wrapper, had completed the appearance of its having never
been filed.

Sharp called for the file in which it belonged and scrutinized it
carefully, fearing he might have overlooked some endorsement regarding
its return to the office.

On the back of the certificate was plainly endorsed the date of filing,
according to law, and signed by the chief clerk.

If this certificate should be seen by the examining clerk, his own
claim, when it came up for patenting, would not be worth the paper on
which it was written.

Sharp glanced furtively around. A young man, or rather a boy about
eighteen years of age, stood a few feet away regarding him closely with
keen black eyes. Sharp, a little confused, thrust the certificate into
the file where it properly belonged and began gathering up the other
papers.

The boy came up and leaned on the desk beside him.

"A right interesting office, sir!" he said. "I have never been in here
before. All those papers, now, they are about lands, are they not? The
titles and deeds, and such things?"

"Yes," said Sharp. "They are supposed to contain all the title papers."

"This one, now," said the boy, taking up Bexar Scrip No. 2692, "what
land does this represent the title of? Ah, I see 'Six hundred and forty
acres in B---- country? Absalom Harris, original grantee.' Please tell
me, I am so ignorant of these things, how can you tell a good survey
from a bad one. I am told that there are a great many illegal and
fraudulent surveys in this office. I suppose this one is all right?"

"No," said Sharp. "The certificate is missing. It is invalid."

"That paper I just saw you place in that file, I suppose is something
else--field notes, or a transfer probably?"

"Yes," said Sharp, hurriedly, "corrected field notes. Excuse me, I am a
little pressed for time."

The boy was watching him with bright, alert eyes.

It would never do to leave the certificate in the file; but he could not
take it out with that inquisitive boy watching him.

He turned to the file room, with a dozen or more files in his hands, and
accidentally dropped part of them on the floor. As he stooped to pick
them up he swiftly thrust Bexar Scrip No. 2692 in the inside breast
pocket of his coat.

This happened at just half-past four o'clock, and when the file clerk
took the files he threw them in a pile in his room, came out and locked
the door.

The clerks were moving out of the doors in long, straggling lines.

It was closing time.

Sharp did not desire to take the file from the Land Office.

The boy might have seen him place the file in his pocket, and the
penalty of the law for such an act was very severe.

Some distance back from the file room was the draftsman's room now
entirely vacated by its occupants.

Sharp dropped behind the outgoing stream of men, and slipped slyly into
this room.

The clerks trooped noisily down the iron stairway, singing, whistling,
and talking.

Below, the night watchman awaited their exit, ready to close and bar the
two great doors to the south and cast.

It is his duty to take careful note each day that no one remains in the
building after the hour of closing.

Sharp waited until all sounds had ceased.

It was his intention to linger until everything was quiet, and then to
remove the certificate from the file, and throw the latter carelessly on
some draftsman's desk as if it had been left there during the business
of the day.

He knew also that he must remove the certificate from the office or
destroy it, as the chance finding of it by a clerk would lead to its
immediately being restored to its proper place, and the consequent
discovery that his location over the old survey was absolutely
worthless.

As he moved cautiously along the stone floor the loud barking of the
little black dog, kept by the watchman, told that his sharp ears had
heard the sounds of his steps. The great, hollow rooms echoed loudly,
move as lightly as he could.

Sharp sat down at a desk and laid the file before him. In all his queer
practices and cunning tricks he had not yet included any act that was
downright criminal. He had always kept on the safe side of the law, but
in the deed he was about to commit there was no compromise to be made
with what little conscience he had left.

There is no well-defined boundary line between honesty and dishonesty.

The frontiers of one blend with the outside limits of the other, and he
who attempts to tread this dangerous ground may be sometimes in one
domain and sometimes in the other; so the only safe road is the broad
highway that leads straight through and has been well defined by line
and compass.

Sharp was a man of what is called high standing in the community. That
is, his word in a trade was as good as any man's; his check was as good
as so much cash, and so regarded; he went to church regularly; went in
good society and owed no man anything.

He was regarded as a sure winner in any land trade he chose to make, but
that was his occupation.

The act he was about to commit now would place him forever in the ranks
of those who chose evil for their portion--if it was found out.

More than that, it would rob a widow and her son of property soon to be
of great value, which, if not legally theirs, was theirs certainly by
every claim of justice.

But he had gone too far to hesitate.

His own survey was in the patent room for patenting. His own title was
about to be perfected by the State's own hand.

The certificate must be destroyed.

He leaned his head on his hands for a moment, and as he did so a sound
behind him caused his heart to leap with guilty fear, but before he
could rise, a hand came over his shoulder and grasped the file.

He rose quickly, as white as paper, rattling his chair loudly on the
stone floor.

The boy who land spoken to him earlier stood contemplating him with
contemptuous and flashing eyes, and quietly placed the file in the left
breast pocket of his coat.

"So, Mr. Sharp, by nature as well as by name," he said, "it seems that I
was right in waiting behind the door in order to see you safely out. You
will appreciate the pleasure I feel in having done so when I tell you my
name is Harris. My mother owns the land on which you have filed, and if
there is any justice in Texas she shall hold it. I am not certain, but I
think I saw you place a paper in this file this afternoon, and it is
barely possible that it may be of value to me. I was also impressed with
the idea that you desired to remove it again, but had not the
opportunity. Anyway, I shall keep it until to-morrow and let the
Commissioner decide."

Far back among Mr. Sharp's ancestors there must have been some of the
old berserker blood, for his caution, his presence of mind left him, and
left him possessed of a blind, devilish, unreasoning rage that showed
itself in a moment in the white glitter of his eye.

"Give me that file, boy," he said, thickly, holding out his hand.

"I am no such fool, Mr. Sharp," said the youth. "This file shall be laid
before the Commissioner to-morrow for examination. If he finds--Help!
Help!"

Sharp was upon him like a tiger and bore him to the floor. The boy was
strong and vigorous, but the suddenness of the attack gave him no chance
to resist. He struggled up again to his feet, but it was an animal, with
blazing eyes and cruel-looking teeth that fought him, instead of a man.

Mr. Sharp, a man of high standing and good report, was battling for his
reputation.

Presently there was a dull sound, and another, and still one more, and a
blade flashing white and then red, and Edward Harris dropped down like
some stuffed effigy of a man, that boys make for sport, with his limbs
all crumpled and lax, on the stone floor of the Land Office.

The old watchman was deaf, and heard nothing.

The little dog barked at the foot of the stairs until his master made
him come into his room.

Sharp stood there for several minutes holding in his hand his bloody
clasp knife, listening to the cooing of the pigeons on the roof, and the
loud ticking of the clock above the receiver's desk.

A map rustled on the wall and his blood turned to ice; a rat ran across
some strewn papers, and his scalp prickled, and he could scarcely
moisten his dry lips with his tongue.

Between the file room and the draftsman's room there is a door that
opens on a small dark spiral stairway that winds from the lower floor to
the ceiling at the top of the house.

This stairway was not used then, nor is it now.

It is unnecessary, inconvenient, dusty, and dark as night, and was a
blunder of the architect who designed the building.

This stairway ends above at the tent-shaped space between the roof and
the joists.

That space is dark and forbidding, and being useless is rarely visited.

Sharp opened this door and gazed for a moment up this narrow cobwebbed
stairway.

* * * *

After dark that night a man opened cautiously one of the lower windows
of the Land Office, crept out with great circumspection and disappeared
in the shadows.

* * * *

One afternoon, a week after this time, Sharp lingered behind again after
the clerks had left and the office closed. The next morning the first
comers noticed a broad mark in the dust on the upstairs floor, and the
same mark was observed below stairs near a window.

It appeared as if some heavy and rather bulky object had been dragged
along through the limestone dust. A memorandum book with "E. Harris"
written on the flyleaf was picked up on the stairs, but nothing
particular was thought of any of these signs.

Circulars and advertisements appeared for a long time in the papers
asking for information concerning Edward Harris, who left his mother's
home on a certain date and had never been heard of since.

After a while these things were succeeded by affairs of more recent
interest, and faded from the public mind.

* * * *

Sharp died two years ago, respected and regretted. The last two years of
his life were clouded with a settled melancholy for which his friends
could assign no reason. The bulk of his comfortable fortune was made
from the land he obtained by fraud and crime.

The disappearance of the file was a mystery that created some commotion
in the Land Office, but he got his patent.

* * * *

It is a well-known tradition in Austin and vicinity that there is a
buried treasure of great value somewhere on the banks of Shoal Creek,
about a mile west of the city.

Three young men living in Austin recently became possessed of what they
thought was a clue of the whereabouts of the treasure, and Thursday
night they repaired to the place after dark and plied the pickaxe and
shovel with great diligence for about three hours.

At the end of that time their efforts were rewarded by the finding of a
box buried about four feet below the surface, which they hastened to
open.

The light of a lantern disclosed to their view the fleshless bones of a
human skeleton with clothing still wrapping its uncanny limbs.

They immediately left the scene and notified the proper authorities of
their ghastly find.

On closer examination, in the left breast pocket of the skeleton's coat,
there was found a flat, oblong packet of papers, cut through and through
in three places by a knife blade, and so completely soaked and clotted
with blood that it had become an almost indistinguishable mass.

With the aid of a microscope and the exercise of a little imagination
this much can be made out of the letter; at the top of the papers:

B--x a-- ---rip N--2--92.

QUERIES AND ANSWERS

[From The Rolling Stone, June 23, 1891.]

Can you inform me where I can buy an interest in a newspaper of some
kind? I have some money and would be glad to invest it in something of
the sort, if some one would allow me to put in my capital against his
experience.
COLLEGE GRADUATE.

Telegraph us your address at once, day message. Keep telegraphing every
ten minutes at our expense until we see you. Will start on first train
after receiving your wire.

* * * *

Who was the author of the line, "Breathes there a man with soul so
dead?"
G. F.

This was written by a visitor to the State Saengerfest of 1892 while
conversing with a member who had just eaten a large slice of limburger
cheese.

* * * *

Where can I get the "Testimony of the Rocks"?
GEOLOGIST.

See the reports of the campaign committees after the election in
November.

* * * *

Please state what the seven wonders of the world are. I know five of
them, I think, but can't find out the other two.
SCHOLAR.

The Temple of Diana, at Lexington, Ky.; the Great Wall of China; Judge
Von Rosenberg (the Colossus of Roads); the Hanging Gardens at Albany; a
San Antonio Sunday school; Mrs. Frank Leslie, and the Populist party.

* * * *

What day did Christmas come on in the year 1847?
CONSTANT READER

The 25th of December.

* * * *

What does an F. F. V. mean?
IGNORANT.

What does he mean by what? If he takes you by the arm and tells you how
much you are like a brother of his in Richmond, he means Feel For Your
Vest, for he wants to borrow a five. If he holds his head high and don't
speak to you on the street he means that he already owes you ten and is
Following a Fresh Victim.

* * * *

Please decide a bet for us. My friend says that the sentence, "The negro
bought the watermelon OF the farmer" is correct, and I say it should be
"The negro bought the watermelon from the farmer." Which is correct?
R.

Neither. It should read, "The negro stole the watermelon
from the farmer."

* * * *

When do the Texas game laws go into effect?
HUNTER.

When you sit down at the table.

* * * *

Do you know where I can trade a section of fine Panhandle land for a
pair of pants with a good title?
LAND AGENT.

We do not. You can't raise anything on land in that section. A man can
always raise a dollar on a good pair of pants.

* * * *

Name in order the three best newspapers in Texas.
ADVERTISER.

Well, the Galveston News runs about second, and the San Antonio Express
third. Let us hear from you again.

* * * *

Has a married woman any rights in Texas?
PROSPECTOR.

Hush, Mr. Prospector. Not quite so loud, if you please. Come up to the
office some afternoon, and if everything seems quiet, come inside, and
look at our eye, and our suspenders hanging on to one button, and feel
the lump on the top of our head. Yes, she has some rights of her own,
and everybody else's she can scoop in.

* * * *

Who was the author of the sayings, "A public office is a public trust,"
and "I would rather be right than President"?

Eli Perkins.

* * * *

Is the Lakeside Improvement Company making anything out of their own
town tract on the lake?
INQUISITIVE.

Yes, lots.

POEMS

[This and the other poems that follow have been found in
files of The Rolling Stone, in the Houston Post's
Postscripts and in manuscript. There are many others, but
these few have been selected rather arbitrarily, to round out
this collection.]

THE PEWEE

In the hush of the drowsy afternoon,
When the very wind on the breast of June
Lies settled, and hot white tracery
Of the shattered sunlight filters free.
Through the unstinted leaves to the pied cool sward;
On a dead tree branch sings the saddest bard
Of the birds that be;
'Tis the lone Pewee.

Its note is a sob, and its note is pitched
In a single key, like a soul bewitched
To a mournful minstrelsy.

"Pewee, Pewee," doth it ever cry;
A sad, sweet minor threnody
That threads the aisles of the dim hot grove
Like a tale of a wrong or a vanished love;
And the fancy comes that the wee dun bird
Perchance was a maid, and her heart was stirred

By some lover's rhyme
In a golden time,

And broke when the world turned false and cold;
And her dreams grew dark and her faith grew cold
In some fairy far-off clime.

And her soul crept into the Pewee's breast;
And forever she cries with a strange unrest
For something lost, in the afternoon;
For something missed from the lavish June;
For the heart that died in the long ago;
For the livelong pain that pierceth so:

Thus the Pewee cries,
While the evening lies

Steeped in the languorous still sunshine,
Rapt, to the leaf and the bough rind the vine
Of some hopeless paradise.
"You can tell your paper," the great man said,
"I refused an interview.
I have nothing to say on the question, sir;
Nothing to say to you."

And then he talked till the sun went down
And the chickens went to roost;
And he seized the collar of the poor young man,
And never his hold he loosed.

And the sun went down and the moon came up,
And he talked till the dawn of day;
Though he said, "On this subject mentioned by you,
I have nothing whatever to say."

And down the reporter dropped to sleep
And flat on the floor he lay;
And the last he heard was the great man's words,
"I have nothing at all to say."

THE MURDERER

"I push my boat among the reeds;
I sit and stare about;
Queer slimy things crawl through the weeds
Put to a sullen rout.
I paddle under cypress trees;
All fearfully I peer
Through oozy channels when the breeze
Comes rustling at my ear.

"The long moss hangs perpetually;
Gray scalps of buried years;
Blue crabs steal out and stare at me,
And seem to gauge my fears;
I start to hear the eel swim by;
I shudder when the crane
Strikes at his prey; I turn to fly,
At drops of sudden rain.

"In every little cry of bird
I hear a tracking shout;
From every sodden leaf that's stirred
I see a face frown out;
My soul shakes when the water rat
Cowed by the blue snake flies;
Black knots from tree holes glimmer at
Me with accusive eyes.
"Through all the murky silence rings
A cry not born of earth;
An endless, deep, unechoing thing
That owns not human birth.
I see no colors in the sky
Save red, as blood is red;
I pray to God to still that cry
From pallid lips and dead.

"One spot in all that stagnant waste
I shun as moles shun light,
And turn my prow to make all haste
To fly before the night.
A poisonous mound hid from the sun,
Where crabs hold revelry;
Where eels and fishes feed upon
The Thing that once was He.

"At night I steal along the shore;
Within my hut I creep;
But awful stars blink through the door,
To hold me from my sleep.
The river gurgles like his throat,
In little choking coves,
And loudly dins that phantom note
From out the awful groves.

"I shout with laughter through the night:
I rage in greatest glee;
My fears all vanish with the light
Oh! splendid nights they be!
I see her weep; she calls his name;
He answers not, nor will;
My soul with joy is all aflame;
I laugh, and laugh, and thrill.

"I count her teardrops as they fall;
I flout my daytime fears;
I mumble thanks to God for all
These gibes and happy jeers.
But, when the warning dawn awakes,
Begins my wandering;
With stealthy strokes through tangled brakes,
A wasted, frightened thing."

SOME POSTSCRIPTS

TWO PORTRAITS

Wild hair flying, in a matted maze,
Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze;
Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze,
As o'er the keno board boldly he plays.
-That's Texas Bill.

Wild hair flying, in a matted maze,
Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze;
Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze,
As o'er the keyboard boldly he plays.
-That's Paderewski.

A CONTRIBUTION

There came unto ye editor
A poet, pale and wan,
And at the table sate him down,
A roll within his hand.

Ye editor accepted it,
And thanked his lucky fates;
Ye poet had to yield it up
To a king full on eights.

SOME POSTSCRIPTS

THE OLD FARM

Just now when the whitening blossoms flare
On the apple trees and the growing grass
Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air;
With my lighted pipe and well-filled glass
Of the old farm I am dreaming,
And softly smiling, seeming
To see the bright sun beaming
Upon the old home farm.

And when I think how we milked the cows,
And hauled the hay from the meadows low;
And walked the furrows behind the plows,
And chopped the cotton to make it grow
I'd much rather be here dreaming
And smiling, only seeming
To see the hot sun gleaming
Upon the old home farm.

VANITY

A Poet sang so wondrous sweet
That toiling thousands paused and listened long;
So lofty, strong and noble were his themes,
It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song.

He, god-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man,
And bade him dry his foolish, shameful tears;
Taught that each soul on its proud self should lean,
And from that rampart scorn all earth-born fears,
The Poet grovelled on a fresh heaped mound,
Raised o'er the clay of one he'd fondly loved;
And cursed the world, and drenched the sod with tears
And all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved.

THE LULLABY BOY

The lullaby boy to the same old tune
Who abandons his drum and toys
For the purpose of dying in early June
Is the kind the public enjoys.

But, just for a change, please sing us a song,
Of the sore-toed boy that's fly,
And freckled and mean, and ugly, and bad,
And positively will not die.

CHANSON DE BOHEME

Lives of great men all remind us
Rose is red and violet's blue;
Johnny's got his gun behind us
'Cause the lamb loved Mary too.

--Robert Burns' "Hocht Time in the aud Town."

I'd rather write this, as bad as it is
Than be Will Shakespeare's shade;
I'd rather be known as an F. F. V.
Than in Mount Vernon laid.

I'd rather count ties from Denver to Troy
Than to head Booth's old programme;
I'd rather be special for the New York World
Than to lie with Abraham.
For there's stuff in the can, there's Dolly and Fan,
And a hundred things to choose;
There's a kiss in the ring, and every old thing
That a real live man can use.

I'd rather fight flies in a boarding house
Than fill Napoleon's grave,
And snuggle up warm in my three slat bed
Than be Andre the brave.

I'd rather distribute a coat of red
On the town with a wad of dough
Just now, than to have my cognomen
Spelled "Michael Angelo."

For a small live man, if he's prompt on hand
When the good things pass around,
While the world's on tap has a better snap
Than a big man under ground.

HARD TO FORGET

I'm thinking to-night of the old farm, Ned,
And my heart is heavy and sad
As I think of the days that by have fled
Since I was a little lad.

There rises before me each spot I know
Of the old home in the dell,
The fields, and woods, and meadows below
That memory holds so well.
The city is pleasant and lively, Ned,
But what to us is its charm?
To-night all my thoughts are fixed, instead,
On our childhood's old home farm.

I know you are thinking the same, dear Ned,
With your head bowed on your arm,
For to-morrow at four we'll be jerked out of bed
To plow on that darned old farm.

DROP A TEAR IN THIS SLOT

He who, when torrid Summer's sickly glare
Beat down upon the city's parched walls,
Sat him within a room scarce 8 by 9,
And, with tongue hanging out and panting breath
Perspiring, pierced by pangs of prickly heat,
Wrote variations of the seaside joke
We all do know and always loved so well,
And of cool breezes and sweet girls that lay
In shady nooks, and pleasant windy coves
Anon
Will in that self-same room, with tattered quilt
Wrapped round him, and blue stiffening hands,
All shivering, fireless, pinched by winter's blasts,
Will hale us forth upon the rounds once more,
So that we may expect it not in vain,
The joke of how with curses deep and coarse
Papa puts up the pipe of parlor stove.
So ye
Who greet with tears this olden favorite,
Drop one for him who, though he strives to please
Must write about the things he never sees

TAMALES

This is the Mexican
Don Jose Calderon
One of God's countrymen.
Land of the buzzard.
Cheap silver dollar, and
Cacti and murderers.
Why has he left his land
Land of the lazy man,
Land of the pulque
Land of the bull fight,
Fleas and revolution.

This is the reason,
Hark to the wherefore;
Listen and tremble.
One of his ancestors,
Ancient and garlicky,
Probably grandfather,
Died with his boots on.
Killed by the Texans,
Texans with big guns,
At San Jacinto.
Died without benefit
Of priest or clergy;
Died full of minie balls,
Mescal and pepper.

Don Jose Calderon
Heard of the tragedy.
Heard of it, thought of it,
Vowed a deep vengeance;
Vowed retribution
On the Americans,
Murderous gringos,
Especially Texans.
"Valga me Dios! que
Ladrones, diablos,
Matadores, mentidores,
Caraccos y perros,
Voy a matarles,
Con solos mis manos,
Toditas sin falta."
Thus swore the Hidalgo
Don Jose Calderon.

He hied him to Austin.
Bought him a basket,
A barrel of pepper,
And another of garlic;
Also a rope he bought.
That was his stock in trade;
Nothing else had he.
Nor was he rated in
Dun or in Bradstreet,
Though he meant business,
Don Jose Calderon,
Champion of Mexico,
Don Jose Calderon,
Seeker of vengeance.

With his stout lariat,
Then he caught swiftly
Tomcats and puppy dogs,
Caught them and cooked them,
Don Jose Calderon,
Vower of vengeance.
Now on the sidewalk
Sits the avenger
Selling Tamales to
Innocent purchasers.
Dire is thy vengeance,
Oh, Jose Calderon,
Pitiless Nemesis
Fearful Redresser
Of the wrongs done to thy
Sainted grandfather.

Now the doomed Texans,
Rashly hilarious,
Buy of the deadly wares,
Buy and devour.
Rounders at midnight,
Citizens solid,
Bankers and newsboys,
Bootblacks and preachers,
Rashly importunate,
Courting destruction.
Buy and devour.
Beautiful maidens
Buy and devour,
Gentle society youths
Buy and devour.

Buy and devour
This thing called Tamale;
Made of rat terrier,
Spitz dog and poodle.
Maltese cat, boardinghouse
Steak and red pepper.
Garlic and tallow,
Corn meal and shucks.
Buy without shame
Sit on store steps and eat,
Stand on the street and eat,
Ride on the cars and eat,
Strewing the shucks around
Over creation.

Dire is thy vengeance.
Don Jose Calderon.
For the slight thing we did
Killing thy grandfather.
What boots it if we killed
Only one greaser,
Don Jose Calderon?
This is your deep revenge,
You have greased all of us,
Greased a whole nation
With your Tamales,
Don Jose Calderon.
Santos Esperiton,
Vincente Camillo,
Quitana de Rios,
De Rosa y Ribera.

LETTERS

[Letter to Mr. Gilman Hall, O. Henry's friend and Associate
Editor of Everybody's Magazine.]

"the Callie"--

Excavation Road -- Sundy.

my dear mr. hall:

in your october E'bodys' i read a story in which i noticed some
sentences as follows:

"Day in, day out, day in, day out, day in, day out, day in, day out, day
in, day out, it had rained, rained, and rained and rained & rained &
rained & rained & rained till the mountains loomed like a chunk of
rooined velvet."

And the other one was: "i don't keer whether you are any good or not,"
she cried. "You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive!
You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive!
You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive!
You're alive! You're alive!"

I thought she would never stop saying it, on and on and on and on and on
and on and on and on and on and on and on and on. "You're alive! You're
alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're
ALIVE!

"You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive!
You're alive! You're alive! You're ALIVE!

"YOU'RE ALIVE!"

Say, bill; do you get this at a rate, or does every word go?

i want to know, because if the latter is right i'm going to interduce in
compositions some histerical personages that will loom up large as
repeeters when the words are counted up at the polls.

Yours truly
O. henry
28 West 26th St.,
West of broadway

Mr. hall,
part editor
of everybody's.

Kyntoekneeyough Ranch, November 31, 1883.

* * * *

[Letter to Mrs. Hall, a friend back in North Carolina. This is
one of the earliest letters found.]

Dear Mrs. Hall:

As I have not heard from you since the shout you gave when you set out
from the station on your way home I guess you have not received some
seven or eight letters from me, and hence your silence. The mails are so
unreliable that they may all have been lost. If you don't get this you
had better send to Washington and get them to look over the dead letter
office for the others. I have nothing to tell you of any interest,
except that we all nearly froze to death last night, thermometer away
below 32 degrees in the shade all night.

You ought by all means to come back to Texas this winter; you would love
it more and more; that same little breeze that you looked for so
anxiously last summer is with us now, as cold as Callum Bros. suppose
their soda water to be.

My sheep are doing finely; they never were in better condition. They
give me very little trouble, for I have never been able to see one of
them yet. I will proceed to give you all the news about this ranch. Dick
has got his new house well under way, the pet lamb is doing finely, and
I take the cake for cooking mutton steak and fine gravy. The chickens
are doing mighty well, the garden produces magnificent prickly pears and
grass; onions are worth two for five cents, and Mr. Haynes has shot a
Mexican.

Please send by express to this ranch 75 cooks and 200 washwomen, blind
or wooden legged ones perferred. The climate has a tendency to make them
walk off every two or three days, which must be overcome. Ed Brockman
has quit the store and I think is going to work for Lee among the cows.
Wears a red sash and swears so fluently that he has been mistaken often
for a member of the Texas Legislature.

If you see Dr. Beall bow to him for me, politely but distantly; he
refuses to waste a line upon me. I suppose he is too much engaged in
courting to write any letters. Give Dr. Hall my profoundest regards. I
think about him invariably whenever he is occupying my thoughts.

Influenced by the contents of the Bugle, there is an impression general
at this ranch that you are president, secretary, and committee, &c., of
the various associations of fruit fairs, sewing societies, church fairs,
Presbytery, general assembly, conference, medical conventions, and baby
shows that go to make up the glory and renown of North Carolina in
general, and while I heartily congratulate the aforesaid institutions on
their having such a zealous and efficient officer, I tremble lest their
requirements leave you not time to favor me with a letter in reply to
this, and assure you that if you would so honor me I would highly
appreciate the effort. I would rather have a good long letter from you
than many Bugles. In your letter be certain to refer as much as possible
to the advantages of civilized life over the barbarous; you might
mention the theatres you see there, the nice things you eat, warm fires,
niggers to cook and bring in wood; a special reference to nice
beef-steak would be advisable. You know our being reminded of these
luxuries makes us contented and happy. When we hear of you people at
home eating turkeys and mince pies and getting drunk Christmas and
having a fine time generally we become more and more reconciled to this
country and would not leave it for anything.

I must close now as I must go and dress for the opera. Write soon.

Yours very truly,
W.S. Porter.

* * * *

To Dr. W.P. Beall

[Dr. Beall, of Greensboro, N.C., was one of young Porter's dearest
friends. Between them there was an almost regular correspondence
during Porter's first years in Texas.]

La Salle County, Texas, December 8, 1883.

Dear Doctor: I send you a play--a regular high art--full orchestra,
gilt-edged drama. I send it to you because of old acquaintance and as a
revival of old associations. Was I not ever ready in times gone by to
generously furnish a spatula and other assistance when you did buy the
succulent watermelon? And was it not by my connivance and help that you
did oft from the gentle Oscar Mayo skates entice? But I digress. I think
that I have so concealed the identity of the characters introduced that
no one will be able to place them, as they all appear under fictitious
names, although I admit that many of the incidents and scenes were
suggested by actual experiences of the author in your city.

You will, of course, introduce the play upon the stage if proper
arrangements can be made. I have not yet had an opportunity of
ascertaining whether Edwin Booth, John McCullough or Henry Irving can be
secured. However, I will leave all such matters to your judgment and
taste. Some few suggestions I will make with regard to the mounting of
the piece which may be of value to you. Discrimination will be necessary
in selecting a fit person to represent the character of Bill Slax, the
tramp. The part is that of a youth of great beauty and noble manners,
temporarily under a cloud and is generally rather difficult to fill
properly. The other minor characters, such as damfools, citizens,
police, customers, countrymen, &c., can be very easily supplied,
especially the first.

Let it be announced in the Patriot for several days that in front of
Benbow Hall, at a certain hour, a man will walk a tight rope seventy
feet from the ground who has never made the attempt before; that the
exhibition will be FREE, and that the odds are 20 to 1 that the man will
be killed. A large crowd will gather. Then let the Guilford Grays charge
one side, the Reidsville Light Infantry the other, with fixed bayonets,
and a man with a hat commence taking up a collection in the rear. By
this means they can be readily driven into the hall and the door locked.

I have studied a long time about devising a plan for obtaining pay from
the audience and have finally struck upon the only feasible one I think.

After the performance let some one come out on the stage and announce
that James Forbis will speak two hours. The result, easily explainable
by philosophical and psychological reasons, will be as follows: The
minds of the audience, elated and inspired by the hope of immediate
departure when confronted by such a terror-inspiring and dismal
prospect, will collapse with the fearful reaction which will take place,
and for a space of time they will remain in a kind of comatose,
farewell-vain-world condition. Now, as this is the time when the
interest of the evening is at its highest pitch, let the melodious
strains of the orchestra steal forth as a committee appointed by the
managers of lawyers, druggists, doctors, and revenue officers, go around
and relieve the audience of the price of admission for each one. Where
one person has no money let it be made up from another, but on no
account let the whole sum taken be more than the just amount at usual
rates.

As I said before, the characters in the play are purely imaginary, and
therefore not to be confounded with real persons. But lest any one,
feeling some of the idiosyncrasies and characteristics apply too
forcibly to his own high moral and irreproachable self, should allow his
warlike and combative spirits to arise, you might as you go, kind of
casually like, produce the impression that I rarely miss my aim with a
Colt's forty-five, but if that does not have the effect of quieting the
splenetic individual, and be still thirsts for Bill Slax's gore, just
inform him that if he comes out Here he can't get any whiskey within two
days' journey of my present abode, and water will have to be his only
beverage while on the warpath. This, I am sure, will avert the bloody
and direful conflict.

Accept my lasting regards and professions of respect.

Ever yours,

Bill Slax

* * * *

To Dr. W. P. Beall

My Dear Doctor: I wish you a happy, &c., and all that sort of thing,
don't you know, &c., &c. I send you a few little productions in the way
of poetry, &c, which, of course, were struck off in an idle moment. Some
of the pictures are not good likenesses, and so I have not labelled
them, which you may do as fast [as] you discover whom they represent, as
some of them resemble others more than themselves, but the poems are
good without exception, and will compare favorably with Baron Alfred's
latest on spring.

I have just come from a hunt, in which I mortally wounded a wild hog,
and as my boots are full of thorns I can't write any longer than this
paper will contain, for it's all I've got, because I'm too tired to
write any more for the reason that I have no news to tell.

I see by the Patriot that you are Superintendent of Public Health, and
assure you that all such upward rise as you make like that will ever be
witnessed with interest and pleasure by me, &c., &c. Give my regards to
Dr. and Mrs. Hall. It would be uncomplimentary to your powers of
perception as well as superfluous to say that I will now close and
remain, yours truly,

W. S. Porter

* * * *

Letter to Dr. W. P. Beall

La Salle County, Texas, February 27, 1884

My Dear Doctor: Your appreciated epistle of the 18th received. I was
very glad to hear from you. I hope to hear again if such irrelevant
correspondence will not interfere with your duties as Public Health
Eradicator, which I believe is the office you hold under county
authority. I supposed the very dramatic Shakespearian comedy to be the
last, as I heard nothing from you previous before your letter, and was
about to write another of a more exciting character, introducing several
bloody single combats, a dynamite explosion, a ladies' oyster supper for
charitable purposes, &c., also comprising some mysterious sub rosa
transactions known only to myself and a select few, new songs and
dances, and the Greensboro Poker Club. Having picked up a few points
myself relative to this latter amusement, I feel competent to give a
lucid, glittering portrait of the scenes presented under its auspices.
But if the former drama has reached you safely, I will refrain from
burdening you any more with the labors of general stage manager, &c.

If long hair, part of a sombrero, Mexican spurs, &c., would make a
fellow famous, I already occupy a topmost niche in the Temple Frame. If
my wild, untamed aspect had not been counteracted by my well-known
benevolent and amiable expression of countenance, I would have been
arrested long ago by the Rangers on general suspicions of murder and
horse stealing. In fact, I owe all my present means of lugubrious living
to my desperate and bloodthirsty appearance, combined with the confident
and easy way in which I tackle a Winchester rifle. There is a gentleman
who lives about fifteen miles from the ranch, who for amusement and
recreation, and not altogether without an eye to the profit, keeps a
general merchandise store. This gent, for the first few months has been
trying very earnestly to sell me a little paper, which I would like much
to have, but am not anxious to purchase. Said paper is my account,
receipted. Occasionally he is absent, and the welcome news coming to my
ear, I mount my fiery boss and gallop wildly up to the store, enter with
something of the sang froid, grace, abandon and recherche nonchalance
with which Charles Yates ushers ladies and gentlemen to their seats in
the opera-house, and, nervously fingering my butcher knife, fiercely
demand goods and chattels of the clerk. This plan always succeeds. This
is by way of explanation of this vast and unnecessary stationery of
which this letter is composed. I am always in too big a hurry to demur
at kind and quality, but when I get to town I will write you on small
gilt-edged paper that would suit even the fastidious and discriminating
taste of a Logan.

When I get to the city, which will be shortly, I will send you some
account of this country and its inmates. You are right, I have almost
forgotten what a regular old, gum-chewing, ice-cream destroying, opera
ticket vortex, ivory-clawing girl looks like. Last summer a very fair
specimen of this kind ranged over about Fort Snell, and I used to ride
over twice a week on mail days and chew the end of my riding whip while
she "Stood on the Bridge" and "Gathered up Shells on the Sea Shore" and
wore the "Golden Slippers." But she has vamoosed, and my ideas on the
subject are again growing dim.

If you see anybody about to start to Texas to live, especially to this
part, if you will take your scalpyouler and sever the jugular vein, cut
the brachiopod artery and hamstring him, after he knows what you have
done for him he will rise and call you blessed. This country is a silent
but eloquent refutation of Bob Ingersoll's theory: a man here gets
prematurely insane, melancholy and unreliable and finally dies of lead
poisoning, in his boots, while in a good old land like Greensboro a man
can die, as they do every day, with all the benefits of the clergy.

W. S. Porter

* * * *

Austin, Texas, April 21, 1885.

Dear Dave: I take my pen in hand to let you know that I am well, and
hope these few lines will find you as well as can be expected.

I carried out your parting injunction of a floral nature with all the
solemnity and sacredness that I would have bestowed upon a dying man's
last request. Promptly at half-past three I repaired to the robbers'
den, commonly known as Radams Horticultural and Vegetable Emporium, and
secured the high-priced offerings, according to promise. I asked if the
bouquets were ready, and the polite but piratical gentleman in charge
pointed proudly to two objects on the counter reposing in a couple of
vases, and said they were.

I then told him I feared there was some mistake, as no buttonhole
bouquets had been ordered, but he insisted on his former declaration,
and so I brought them away and sent them to their respective
destinations.

I thought it a pity to spoil a good deck of cards by taking out only
one, so I bundled up the whole deck, and inserted them in the bouquet,
but finally concluded it would not be right to violet (JOKE) my promise
and I rose (JOKE) superior to such a mean trick and sent only one as
directed.

I have a holiday to-day, as it is San Jacinto day. Thermopylae had its
messenger of defeat, but the Alamo had none. Mr. President and fellow
citizens, those glorious heroes who fell for their country on the bloody
field of San Jacinto, etc.

There is a bazaar to-night in the representatives' hall. You people out
in Colorado don't know anything. A bazaar is cedar and tacks and girls
and raw-cake and step-ladders and Austin Grays and a bass solo by Bill
Stacy, and net profits $2.65.

Albert has got his new uniform and Alf Menille is in town, and tile
store needs the "fine Italian hand" of the bookkeeper very much, besides
some of his plain Anglo-Saxon conversation.

Was interviewed yesterday by Gen'l Smith, Clay's father. He wants Jim S.
and me to represent a manufactory in Jeff. City: Convict labor. Says
parties in Galveston and Houston are making good thing of it. Have taken
him up. Hope to be at work soon. Glad, by jingo! Shake. What'll you
have? Claret and sugar? Better come home. Colorado no good.

Strange thing happened in Episcopal Church Sunday Big crowd. Choir had
sung jolly tune and preacher come from behind scenes. Everything quiet.
Suddenly fellow comes down aisle. Late. Everybody looks. Disappointment.
It is a stranger. Jones and I didn't go. Service proceeds.

Jones talks about his mashes and Mirabeau B. Lamar, daily. Yet there is
hope. Cholera infantum; Walsh's crutch; Harvey, or softening of the
brain may carry him off yet.

Society notes are few. Bill Stacey is undecided where to spend the
summer. Henry Harrison will resort at Wayland and Crisers. Charlie Cook
will not go near a watering place if he can help it.

If you don't strike a good thing out West, I hope we will see you soon.

Yours as ever,

W. S. P.

* * * *

Austin, Texas, April 28, 1885

Dear Dave: I received your letter in answer to mine, which you never got
till sometime after you had written.

I snatch a few moments from my arduous labors to reply. The Colorado has
been on the biggest boom I have seen since '39. In the pyrotechnical and
not strictly grammatical language of the Statesman--"The cruel,
devastating flood swept, on a dreadful holocaust of swollen, turbid
waters, surging and dashing in mad fury which have never been equalled
in human history. A pitiable sight was seen the morning after the flood.
Six hundred men, out of employment, were seen standing on the banks of
the river, gazing at the rushing stream, laden with debris of every
description. A wealthy New York Banker, who was present, noticing the
forlorn appearance of these men, at once began to collect a subscription
for them, appealing in eloquent terms for help for these poor sufferers
by the flood. He collected one dollar, and five horn buttons. The dollar
he had given himself. He learned on inquiry that these men had not been
at any employment in six years, and all they had lost by the flood was a
few fishing poles. The Banker put his dollar in his pocket and stepped
up to the Pearl Saloon."

As you will see by this morning's paper, there is to be a minstrel show
next Wednesday for benefit of Austin Grays.

I attended the rehearsal last night, but am better this morning, and the
doctor thinks I will pull through with careful attention.

The jokes are mostly mildewed, rockribbed, and ancient as the sun. I can
give you no better idea of the tout ensemble and sine die of the affair
than to state that Scuddy is going to sing a song.

Mrs. Harrell brought a lot of crystallized fruits from New Orleans for
you. She wants to know if she shall send them around on Bois d'arc or
keep them 'til you return. Answer.

Write to your father. He thinks you are leaving him out, writing to
everybody else first. Write.

We have the boss trick here now. Have sold about ten boxes of cigars
betting on it in the store.

Take four nickels, and solder them together so the solder will not
appear. Then cut out of three of them, square hole like this:
(Illustration.) Take about twelve other nickels, and on top of them you
lay a small die with the six up, that will fit easily in the hole
without being noticed. You lay the four nickels over this, and all
presents the appearance of a stack of nickels. You do all this privately
so everybody will suppose it is nothing but a stack of five-cent pieces.
You then lay another small die on top of the stack with the ace up. You
have a small tin cup shaped like this (Illustration) made for the
purpose. You let everybody see the ace, and then say you propose to turn
the ace into a six. You lay the tin cup carefully over the stack this
way, and feel around in your pocket for a pencil and not finding one.

(The rest of this letter is lost)

* * * *

AUSTIN, Texas, May 10, 1885.

Dear Dave: I received your two letters and have commenced two or three
in reply, but always failed to say what I wanted to, and destroyed them
all. I heard from Joe that you would probably remain in Colorado. I hope
you will succeed in making a good thing out of it, if you conclude to do
so, but would like to see you back again in Austin. If there is anything
I can do for you here, let me know.

Town is fearfully dull, except for the frequent raids of the Servant
Girl Annihilators, who make things lively during the dead hours of the
night; if it were not for them, items of interest would be very scarce,
as you may see by the STATESMAN.

Our serenading party has developed new and alarming modes of torture for
our helpless and sleeping victims. Last Thursday night we loaded up a
small organ on a hack and with our other usual instruments made an
assault upon the quiet air of midnight that made the atmosphere turn
pale.

After going the rounds we were halted on the Avenue by Fritz Hartkopf
and ordered into his salon. We went in, carrying the organ, etc. A large
crowd of bums immediately gathered, prominent among which, were to be
seen Percy James, Theodore Hillyer, Randolph Burmond, Charlie Hicks, and
after partaking freely of lemonade we wended our way down, and were duly
halted and treated in the same manner by other hospitable gentlemen.

We were called in at several places while wit and champagne, Rhein Wine,
etc., flowed in a most joyous and hilarious manner. It was one of the
most recherche and per diem affairs ever known in the city. Nothing
occurred to mar the pleasure of the hour, except a trifling incident
that might be construed as malapropos and post-meridian by the
hypercritical. Mr. Charles Sims on attempting to introduce Mr. Charles
Hicks and your humble servant to young ladies, where we had been invited
inside, forgot our names and required to be informed on the subject
before proceeding.

Yours

W. S. P.

* * * *

AUSTIN, Texas, December 22, 1885.

Dear Dave: Everything wept at your departure. Especially the clouds.
Last night the clouds had a silver lining, three dollars and a half's
worth. I fulfilled your engagement in grand, tout ensemble style, but
there is a sad bon jour look about the thirty-eight cents left in my
vest pocket that would make a hired man weep. All day long the heavens
wept, and the heavy, sombre clouds went drifting about over head, and
the north wind howled in maniacal derision, and the hack drivers danced
on the pavements in wild, fierce glee, for they knew too well what the
stormy day betokened. The hack was to call for me at eight. At five
minutes to eight I went upstairs and dressed in my usual bijou and
operatic style, and rolled away to the opera. Emma sang finely. I
applauded at the wrong times, and praised her rendering of the chromatic
scale when she was performing on "c" flat andante pianissimo, but
otherwise the occasion passed off without anything to mar the joyousness
of the hour. Everybody was there. Isidor Moses and John Ireland, and
Fritz Hartkopf and Prof. Herzog and Bill Stacy and all the bong ton
elight. You will receive a draft to-day through the First National Bank
of Colorado for $3.65, which you will please honor.

There is no news, or there are no news, either you like to tell. Lavaca
Street is very happy and quiet and enjoys life, for Jones was sat on by
his Uncle Wash and feels humble and don't sing any more, and the spirit
of peace and repose broods over its halls. Martha rings the matin bell,
it seems to me before cock crow or ere the first faint streaks of dawn
are limned in the eastern sky by the rosy fingers of Aurora. At noon the
foul ogre cribbage stalks rampant, and seven-up for dim, distant oysters
that only the eye of faith can see.

The hour grows late. The clock strikes! Another day has vanished. Gone
into the dim recesses of the past, leaving its record of misspent hours,
false hopes, and disappointed expectations. May a morrow dawn that will
bring recompense and requital for the sorrows of the days gone by, and a
new order of things when there will be more starch in cuff and collar,
and less in handkerchiefs.

Come with me out into the starlight night. So calm, so serene, ye lights
of heaven, so high above earth; so pure and majestic and mysterious;
looking down on the mad struggle of life here below, is there no pity in
your never closing eyes for us mortals on which you shine?

Come with me on to the bridge. Ah, see there, far below, the dark,
turbid stream. Rushing and whirling and eddying under the dark pillars
with ghostly murmur and siren whisper. What shall we find in your
depths? The stars do not reflect themselves in your waters, they are too
dark and troubled and swift! What shall we find in your depths?
Rest?--Peace?--catfish? Who knows? 'Tis but a moment. A leap! A
plunge!--and--then oblivion or another world? Who can tell? A man once
dived into your depths and brought up a horse collar and a hoop-skirt.
Ah! what do we know of the beyond? We know that death comes, and we
return no more to our world of trouble and care-but where do we go? Are
there lands where no traveler has been? A chaos-perhaps where no human
foot has trod--perhaps Bastrop--perhaps New Jersey! Who knows? Where do
people go who are in McDade? Do they go where they have to fare worse?
They cannot go where they have worse fare!

Let us leave the river. The night grows cold. We could not pierce the
future or pay the tell. Come, the ice factory is deserted! No one sees
us. My partner, W. I. Anderson, will never destroy himself. Why? His
credit is good. No one will sue a side-partner of mine! You have heard
of a brook murmuring, but you never knew a sewer sighed! But we digress!
We will no longer pursue a side issue like this. Au reevoir. I will see
you later. Yours truly,

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE INGOMAR JUNIUS
BRUTUS CALLIOPE SIX-HANDED EUCHRE
GROVER CLEVELAND HILL CITY QUARTETTE JOHNSON.

* * * *

AN EARLY PARABLE

In one of his early letters, written from Austin, O. Henry wrote a long
parable that was evidently to tell his correspondent some of the local
gossip. Here it is Once upon a time there was a maiden in a land not fax
away--a maiden of much beauty and rare accomplishments. She was beloved
by all on account of her goodness of heart, and her many charms of
disposition. Her father was a great lord, rich and powerful, and a
mighty man, and he loved his daughter with exceeding great love, and he
cared for her with jealous and loving watchfulness, lest any harm should
befall her, or even the least discomfort should mar her happiness and
cause any trouble in her smooth and peaceful life. The cunningest
masters were engaged to teach her from her youngest days; she played
upon the harpsichord the loveliest and sweetest music; she wrought fancy
work in divers strange and wonderful forms that might puzzle all
beholders as to what manner of things they might be; she sang; and all
listeners hearkened thereunto, as to the voice of an angel; she danced
stately minuets with the gay knights as graceful as a queen and as light
as the thistledown borne above the clover blossoms by the wind; she
could paint upon china, rare and unknown flowers the like unto which man
never saw in colors, crimson and blue and yellow, glorious to behold;
she conversed in unknown tongues whereof no man knew the meaning and
sense; and created wild admiration in all, by the ease and grace with
which she did play upon a new and strange instrument of wondrous sound
and structure which she called a banjo.

She had gone into a strange land, far away beyond the rivers that flowed
through her father's dominion--farther than one could see from the
highest castle tower--up into the land of ice and snow, where wise men,
famous for learning and ancient lore had gathered together from many
lands and countries the daughters of great men. Kings and powerful
rulers, railroad men, bankers, mighty men who wished to bring up their
children to be wise and versed in all things old and new. Here, the
Princess abode for many seasons, and she sat at the feet of old wise
men, who could tell of the world's birth, and the stars, and read the
meaning of the forms of the rocks that make the high mountains and knew
the history of all created things that are; and here she learned to
speak strange tongues, and studied the deep mysteries of the past--the
secrets of the ancients; Chaldic lore; Etruscan inscription; hidden and
mystic sciences, and knew the names of all the flowers and things that
grow in fields or wood; even unto the tiniest weed by the brook.

In due time the Princess came back to her father's castle. The big bell
boomed from the high tower; the heavy iron gates were thrown open;
banners floated all along the battlemented walls, and in the grand hall,
servants and retainers hurried to and fro, bearing gold dishes, and
great bowls of flaming smoking punch, while oxen were roasted whole and
hogsheads of ale tapped on the common by the castle walls, and thither
hied them the villagers one and all to make merry at the corning of the
dear Princess again. "She will come back so wise and learned," they
said, "so far above us that she will not notice us as she did once," but
not so: the Princess with a red rose in her hair, and dressed so plain
and neat that she looked more like a farmer's daughter than a great
king's, came down among them from her father's side with nods of love
and welcome on her lips, and a smile upon her face, and took them by the
hands as in the old days, and none among them so lowly or so poor but
what received a kind word from the gracious Princess, and carried away
in their hearts glad feelings that she was still the same noble and
gracious lady she always was. Then night came, and torches by thousands
lit up the great forest, and musicians played and bonfires glowed, with
sparks flying like myriads of stars among the gloomy trees.

In the great castle hall were gathered the brave knights and the fairest
ladies in the kingdom. The jolly old King, surrounded by the wise men
and officers of state moved about among his guests, stately and
courteous, ravishing music burst forth from all sides, and down the hall
moved the fair Princess in the mazy dance, on the arm of a Knight who
gazed upon her face in rapt devotion and love. Who was he that dared to
look thus upon the daughter of the King, sovereign prince of the
kingdom, and the heiress of her father's wealth and lands.

He had no title, no proud name to place beside a royal one, beyond that
of an honorable knight, but who says that that is not a title that,
borne worthily, makes a man the peer of any that wears a crown?

He had loved her long. When a boy they had roamed together in the great
forest about the castle, and played among the fountains of the court
like brother and sister, The King saw them together often and smiled and
went his way and said nothing. The years went on and they were together
as much as they could be. The summer days when the court went forth into
the forest mounted on prancing steeds to chase the stags with hounds;
all clad in green and gold with waving plumes and shining silver and
ribbons of gay colors, this Knight was by the Princess' side to guide
her through the pathless swamps where the hunt ranged, and saw that no
harm came to her. And now that she had come back after years of absence,
he went to her with fear lest she should have changed for her old self,
and would not be to him as she was when they were boy and girl together.
But no, there was the same old kindly welcome, the same smiling
greeting, the warm pressure of the hand, the glad look in the eyes as of
yore. The Knight's heart beat wildly and a dim new-awakened hope arose
in him. Was she too far away, after all?

He felt worthy of her, and of any one in fact, but he was without
riches, only a knight-errant with his sword for his fortune, and his
great love his only title; and he had always refrained from ever telling
her anything of his love, for his pride prevented him, and you know a
poor girl even though she be a princess cannot say to a man, "I am rich,
but, let that be no bar between us, I am yours and will let my wealth
pass if you will give up your pride." No princess can say this, and the
Knight's pride would not let him say anything of the kind and so you see
there was small chance of their ever coming to an understanding.

Well, the feasting and dancing went on, and the Knight and the Princess
danced and sang together, and walked out where the moon was making a
white wonder of the great fountain, and wandered under the rows of great
oaks, but spoke no word of love, though no mortal man knows what
thoughts passed in their heads; and she gave long accounts of the
wonders she had seen in the far, icy north, in the great school of wise
men, and the Knight talked of the wild and savage men he had seen in the
Far West, where he had been in battles with the heathen in a wild and
dreary land; and she heard with pity his tales of suffering and trials
in the desert among wild animals and fierce human kings; and inside the
castle the music died away and the lights grew dim and the villagers had
long since gone to their homes and the Knight and the Princess still
talked of old times, and the moon climbed high in the eastern sky.

One day there came news from a country far to the west where lay the
possessions of the Knight. The enemy had robbed him of his treasure,
driven away his cattle, and he found it was best to hie him away and
rescue his inheritance and goods. He buckled on his sword and mounted
his good war-horse. He rode to the postern gate of the castle to make
his adieus to the Princess. When he told her he was going away to the
wild western country to do battle with the heathen, she grew pale and
her eyes took on a look of such pain and fear that the Knight's heart
leaped and then sank in his bosom, a his pride still kept him from
speaking the words that might have made all well.

She bade him farewell in a low voice, and tears even stood in leer eyes,
but what could she say or do?

The Knight put spurs to his horse, and dashed away over the hills
without ever looking back, and the Princess stood looking over the gate
at him till the last sight of his plume below the brow of the hill. The
Knight was gone. Many suitors flocked about the Princess. Mighty lords
and barons of great wealth were at her feet and attended her every
journey. They came and offered themselves and their fortunes again and
again, but none of them found favor in her eyes. "Will the Princess
listen to no one?" they began to say among themselves. "Has she given
her heart to some one who is not among us?" No one could say.

A great and mighty physician, young and of wondrous power in his art,
telephoned to her every night if he might come down. How his suit
prospered no one could tell, but he persevered with great and
astonishing diligence. A powerful baron who assisted in regulating the
finances of the kingdom and who was a direct descendant of a great
prince who was cast into a lion's den, knelt at her feet.

A gay and lively lord who lived in a castle hung with ribbons and
streamers and gay devices of all kinds, with other nobles of like
character, prostrated themselves before her, but she would listen to
none of them.

The Princess rode about in quiet ways in the cool evenings upon a gray
palfrey, alone and very quiet, and she seemed to grow silent and
thoughtful as time went on and no news came from the western wars, and
the Knight came not back again.

[Written to his daughter Margaret.]

* * * *

TOLEDO, Ohio, Oct. 1, 1900.

Dear Margaret: I got your very nice, long letter a good many days ago.
It didn't come straight to me, but went to a wrong address first. I was
very glad indeed to hear from you, and very, very sorry to learn of your
getting your finger so badly hurt. I don't think you were to blame at
all, as you couldn't know just how that villainous old "hoss" was going
to bite. I do hope that it will heal up nicely and leave your finger
strong. I am learning to play the mandolin, and we must get you a
guitar, and we will learn a lot of duets together when I come home which
will certainly not be later than next summer, and maybe earlier.

I suppose you have started to school again some time ago. I hope you
like to go, and don't have to study too hard. When one grows up, a thing
they never regret is that they went to school long enough to learn all
they could. It makes everything easier for them, and if they like books
and study they can always content and amuse themselves that way even if
other people are cross and tiresome, and the world doesn't go to suit
them. You mustn't think that I've forgotten somebody's birthday. I
couldn't find just the thing I wanted to send, but I know where it can
be had, and it will reach you in a few days. So, when it comes you'll
know it is for a birthday remembrance.

I think you write the prettiest hand of any little girl (or big one,
either) I ever knew. The letters you make are as even and regular as
printed ones. The next time you write, tell me how far you have to go to
school and whether you go alone or not.

I am busy all the time writing for the papers and magazines all over the
country, so I don't have a chance to come home, but I'm going to try to
come this winter. If I don't I will by summer SURE, and then you'll have
somebody to boss and make trot around with you.

Write me a letter whenever you have some time to spare, for I am always
glad and anxious to hear from you. Be careful when you are on the
streets not to feed shucks to strange dogs, or pat snakes on the head or
shake hands with cats you haven't been introduced to, or stroke the
noses of electric car horses.

Hoping you are well and your finger is getting all right, I am, with
much love, as ever, PAPA.

* * * *

My Dear Margaret: Here it is summertime, and the bees are blooming and
the flowers are singing and the birds making honey, and we haven't been
fishing yet. Well, there's only one more month till July, and then we'll
go, and no mistake. I thought you would write and tell me about the high
water around Pittsburg some time ago, and whether it came up to where
you live, or not. And I haven't heard a thing about Easter, and about
the rabbit's eggs--but I suppose you have learned by this time that eggs
grow on egg plants and are not laid by rabbits.

I would like very much to hear from you oftener, it has been more than a
month now since you wrote. Write soon and tell me how you are, and when
school will be out, for we want plenty of holidays in July so we can
have a good time. I am going to send you something nice the last of this
week. What do you guess it will be?

Lovingly,
PAPA.

* * * *

The Caledonia

WEDNESDAY.

My Dear Mr. Jack:

I owe Gilman Hall $175 (or mighty close to it) pussonally--so he tells
me. I thought it was only about $30, but he has been keeping the
account. He's just got to have it to-day. McClure's will pay me some
money on the 15th of June, but I can't get it until then. I was
expecting it before this--anyhow before Gilman left, but they stick to
the letter.

I wonder if you could give me a check for that much to pay him to-day.
If you will I'll hold up my right hand--thus: that I'll have you a
first-class story on your desk before the last of this week.

I reckon I'm pretty well overdrawn, but I've sure got to see that Hall
gets his before he leaves. I don't want anything for myself.

Please, sir, let me know right away, by return boy if you'll do it.

If you can't, I'll have to make a quick dash at the three-ball
magazines; and I do hate to tie up with them for a story.

The Same

MR. J. O. H. COSGRAVE, SYDNEY PORTER.

at this time editor of Everybody's Magazine.

* * * *

A letter to Gilman Hall, written just before the
writer's marriage to Miss Sara Lindsay Coleman of
Asheville, N. C.

WEDNESDAY.
Dear Gilman:

Your two letters received this A.M. Mighty good letters, too, and
cheering.

Mrs. Jas. Coleman is writing Mrs. Ball to-day. She is practically the
hostess at Wynn Cottage where the hullabaloo will occur.

Say, won't you please do one or two little things for me before you
leave, as you have so kindly offered?

(1) Please go to Tiffany's and get a wedding ring, size 5 1/4. Sara says
the bands worn now are quite narrow--and that's the kind she wants.

(2) And bring me a couple of dress collars, size 16 1/2. I have ties.

(3) And go to a florist's--there is one named Mackintosh (or something
like that) on Broadway, East side of street five or site doors north of
26th St., where I used to buy a good many times. He told me he could
ship flowers in good shape to Asheville--you might remind him that I
used to send flowers to 36 West 17th Street some time ago. I am told by
the mistress of ceremonies that I am to furnish two bouquets--one of
lilies of the valley and one of pale pink roses. Get plenty of each--
say enough lilies to make a large bunch to be carried in the hand, and
say three or four dozen of the roses.

I note what you say about hard times and will take heed. I'm not going
into any extravagances at all, and I'm going to pitch into hard work
just as soon as I get the rice grains out of my ear.

I wired you to-day "MS. mailed to-day, please rush one century by wire."

That will exhaust the Reader check--if it isn't too exhausted itself to
come. You, of course, will keep the check when it arrives--I don't think
they will fall down on it surely. I wrote Howland a pretty sharp letter
and ordered him to send it at once care of Everybody's.

When this story reaches you it will cut down the overdraft "right
smart," but if the house is willing I'd mighty well like to run it up to
the limit again, because cash is sure scarce, and I'll have to have
something like $300 more to see me through. The story I am sending is a
new one; I still have another partly written for you, which I shall
finish and turn in before I get back to New York and then we'll begin to
clean up all debts.

Just after the wedding we are going to Hot Spring, N. C., only
thirty-five miles from Asheville, where there is a big winter resort
hotel, and stay there about a week or ten days. Then back to New York.

Please look over the story and arrange for bringing me the $300 when you
come--it will still keep me below the allowed limit and thereafter I
will cut down instead of raising it.

Just had a 'phone message from S. L. C. saying how pleased she was with
your letter to her.

I'm right with you on the question of the "home-like" system of having
fun. I think we'll all agree beautifully on that. I've had all the cheap
bohemia that I want. I can tell you, none of the "climbers" and the
cocktail crowd are going to bring their vaporings into my house. It's
for the clean, merry life, with your best friends in the game and a
general concentration of energies and aims. I am having a cedarwood club
cut from the mountains with knots on it, and I am going to stand in my
hallway (when I have one) and edit with it the cards of all callers. You
and Mrs. will have latchkeys, of course.

Yes, I think you'd better stay at the hotel ---- Of course they'd want
you out at Mrs. C's. But suppose we take Mrs. Hall out there, and you
and I remain at the B. P. We'll be out at the Cottage every day anyhow,
and it'll be scrumptious all round.

I'm simply tickled to death that "you all" are coming. The protoplasm is
in Heaven; all's right with the world. Pippa passes.

Yours as ever,

BILL.

* * * *

My Dear Col. Griffith: FRIDAY.

Keep your shirt on. I found I had to re-write the story when it came in.
I am sending you part of it just so you will have something tangible to
remind you that you can't measure the water from the Pierian Spring in
spoonfuls.

I've got the story in much better form; and I'll have the rest of it
ready this evening.

I'm sorry to have delayed it; but it's best for both of us to have it a
little late and a good deal better.

I'll send over the rest before closing time this afternoon or the
first thing in the morning.

In its revised form I'm much better pleased with it.

Yours truly,

SYDNEY PORTER.

* * * *

Mr. Al. Jennings, of Oklahoma City, was an early friend of O. Henry's.
Now, in 1.9122, a prominent attorney, Mr. Jennings, in his youth, held
up trains.

28 W. 26. N. Y. SUNDAY.
ALGIE JENNINGS, ESQ., THE WEST.

DEAR BILL:

Glad you've been sick too. I'm well again. Are you? Well, as I had
nothing to do I thought I would write you a letter; and as I have
nothing to say I will close. How are ye, Bill? How's old Initiative and
Referendum? When you cming back to Manhattan? You wouldn't know the old
town now. Main Street is building up, and there is talk of an English
firm putting up a new hotel. I saw Duffy a few days ago. He looks kind
of thoughtful as if he were trying to calculate how much he'd have been
ahead on Gerald's board and clothes by now if you bad taken him with
you. Mrs. Hale is up in Maine for a 3 weeks' vacation.

Say, Bill, I'm sending your MS. back by mail to-day. I kept it a little
longer after you sent for it because one of the McClure & Phillips firm
wanted to see it first. Everybody says it is full of good stuff, but
thinks it should be put in a more connected shape by some skilful writer
who has been trained to that sort work.

It seems to me that you ought to do better with it out there than you
could here. If you can get somebody out there to publish it it ought to
sell all right. N. Y. is a pretty cold proposition and it can't see as
far as the Oklahoma country when it is looking for sales. How about
trying Indianapolis or Chicago? Duffy told me about the other MS sent
out by your friend Abbott. Kind of a bum friendly trick, wasn't it?

Why don't you get "Arizona's Hand" done and send it on? Seems to me you
could handle a short story all right.

My regards to Mrs. Jennings and Bro. Frank. Write some more.

Still
BILL.

* * * *

Dear Jennings:

N. Y., May 23, '05.

Got your letter all right. Hope you'll follow it soon. I'd advise you
not to build any high hopes on your book--just consider that you're on a
little pleasure trip, and taking it along as a side line. Mighty few
MSS. ever get to be books, and mighty few books pay.

I have to go to Pittsburg the first of next week to be gone about 3 or 4
days. If you decide to come here any time after the latter part of next
week I will be ready to meet you. Let me know in advance a day or two.

Gallot is in Grand Rapids--maybe he will run over for a day or two.

In haste and truly yours,
W. S. P.

* * * *

[It was hard to get O. Henry to take an interest in his books. He
was always eager to be at the undone work, to be writing a new
story instead of collecting old ones. This letter came from North
Carolina. It shows how much thought he gave always to titles.]

LAND o' THE SKY, Monday, 1909.

My dear Colonel Steger: As I wired you to-day, I like "Man About Town"
for a title.

But I am sending in a few others for you to look at; and if any other
suits you better, I'm agreeable. Here they are, in preferred order:

The Venturers.
Transfers.
Merry-Go-Rounds.
Babylonica.
Brickdust from Babel.
Babes in the Jungle.

If none of these hit you right, let me know and I'll get busy again. But
I think "Man About Town" is about the right thing. It gives the city
idea without using the old hackneyed words.

I am going to write you a letter in a day or so "touchin' on and
appertainin' to" other matters and topics. I am still improving and
feeling pretty good. Colonel Bingham has put in a new ash-sifter and
expects you to come down and see that it works all right.

All send regards to you. You seem to have made quite a hit down here for
a Yankee.

Salutations and good wishes. Yours, S. P.

[This letter was found unfinished, among his papers after his
death. His publishers had discussed many times his writing of a
novel, but the following letter constitutes the only record of his
own opinions in the matter. The date is surely 1909 or 1910.]

My Dear Mr. Steger: My idea is to write the story of a man--an
individual, not a type--but a man who, at the same time, I want to
represent a "human nature type," if such a person could exist. The story
will teach no lesson, inculcate no moral, advance no theory. I want it
to be something that it won't or can't be--but as near as I can make
it--the true record of a man's thoughts, his description of his
mischances and adventures, his TRUE opinions of life as he has seen it
and his ABSOLUTELY HONEST deductions, comments, and views upon the
different phases of life that he passes through.

I do not remember ever to have read an autobiography, a biography, or a
piece of fiction that told the TRUTH. Of course, I have read stuff such
as Rousseau and Zola and George Moore and various memoirs that were
supposed to be window panes in their respective breasts; but, mostly,
all of them were either liars, actors, or posers. (Of course, I'm not
trying to belittle the greatness of their literary expression.)

All of us have to be prevaricators, hypocrites and liars every day of
our lives; otherwise the social structure would fall into pieces the
first day. We must act in one another's presence just as we must wear
clothes. It is for the best.

The trouble about writing the truth has been that the writers have kept
in their minds one or another or all of three thoughts that made a
handicap--they were trying either to do a piece of immortal literature,
or to shock the public or to please editors. Some of them succeeded in
all three, but they did not write the TRUTH. Most autobiographies are
insincere from beginning to end. About the only chance for the truth to
be told is in fiction. It is well understood that "all the truth" cannot
be told in print--but how about "nothing but the truth"? That's what I
want to do.

I want the man who is telling the story to tell it--not as he would to a
reading public or to a confessor--but something in this way: Suppose he
were marooned on an island in mid-ocean with no hope of ever being
rescued; and, in order to pass away some of the time he should tell a
story to HIMSELF embodying his adventure and experiences and opinions.
Having a certain respect for himself (let us hope) he would leave out
the "realism" that he would have no chance of selling in the market; he
would omit the lies and self-conscious poses, and would turn out to his
one auditor something real and true.

So, as truth is not to be found in history, autobiography, press reports
(nor at the bottom of an H. G. Wells), let us hope that fiction may be
the means of bringing out a few grains of it.

The "hero" of the story will be a man born and "raised" in a somnolent
little southern town. His education is about a common school one, but he
learns afterward from reading and life. I'm going to try to give him a
"style" in narrative and speech--the best I've got in the shop. I'm
going to take him through all the main phases of life--wild adventure,
city, society, something of the "under world," and among many
characteristic planes of the phases. I want him to acquire all the
sophistication that experience can give him, and always preserve his
individual honest HUMAN view, and have him tell the TRUTH about
everything.

It is time to say now, that by the "truth" I don't mean the
objectionable stuff that so often masquerades under the name. I mean
true opinions a true estimate of all things as they seem to the "hero."
If you find a word or a suggestive line or sentence in any of my copy,
you cut it out and deduct it from the royalties.

I want this man to be a man of natural intelligence, of individual
character, absolutely open and broad minded; and show how the Creator of
the earth has got him in a rat trap--put him here "willy nilly" (you
know the Omar verse); and then I want to show what he does about it.
There is always the eternal question from the Primal Source--"What are
you going to do about it?" Please don't think for the half of a moment
that the story is going to be anything of an autobiography. I have a
distinct character in my mind for the part, and he does not at all.

(Here the letter ends. He never finished it.)

* * * *

THE STORY OF "HOLDING UP A TRAIN"

In "Sixes and Sevens" there appears an article entitled "Holding Up a
Train." Now the facts were given to O. Henry by an old and dear friend
who, in his wild avenging youth, had actually held up trains. To-day he
is Mr. Al. Jennings, of Oklahoma City, Okla., a prominent attorney. He
has permitted the publication of two letters O. Henry wrote him, the
first outlining the story as he thought his friend Jennings ought to
write it, and the second announcing that, with O. Henry's revision, the
manuscript had been accepted.

From W. S. Porter to Al. Jennings, September 21st
(year not given but probably 1902).

DEAR PARD:

In regard to that article--I will give you my idea of what is wanted.
Say we take for a title "The Art and Humor of the Hold-up"--or something
like that. I would suggest that in writing you assume a character. We
have got to respect the conventions and delusions of the public to a
certain extent. An article written as you would naturally write it would
be regarded as a fake and an imposition. Remember that the traditions
must be preserved wherever they will not interfere with the truth. Write
in as simple, plain and unembellished a style as you know how. Make your
sentences short. Put in as much realism and as many facts as possible.
Where you want to express an opinion or comment on the matter do it as
practically and plainly as you can. Give it LIFE and the vitality of
FACTS.

Now, I will give you a sort of general synopsis of my idea--of course,
everything is subject to your own revision and change. The article, we
will say, is written by a TYPICAL train hoister--one without your
education and powers of expression (bouquet) but intelligent enough to
convey his ideas from HIS STANDPOINT--not from John Wanamaker's. Yet, in
order to please John, we will have to assume a virtue that we do not
possess. Comment on the moral side of the proposition as little as
possible. Do not claim that holding up trains is the only business a
gentleman would engage in, and, on the contrary, do not depreciate a
profession that is really only fnanciering with spurs on. Describe the
FACTS and DETAILS--all that part of the proceedings that the passenger
sitting with his hands up in a Pullman looking into the end of a tunnel
in the hands of one of the performers does not see. Here is a rough
draft of my idea: Begin abruptly, without any philosophizing, with your
idea of the best times, places and conditions for the hold-up---compare
your opinions of this with those of others--mention some poorly
conceived attempts and failures of others, giving your opinion why--as
far as possible refer to actual occurrences, and incidents--describe the
manner of a hold-up, how many men is best, where they are stationed, how
do they generally go into it, nervous? or joking? or solemnly. The
details of stopping the train, the duties of each man of the gang--the
behavior of the train crew and passengers (here give as many brief odd
and humorous incidents as you can think of). Your opinions on going
through the passengers, when is it done and when not done. How is the
boodle gotten at? How does the express clerk generally take it? Anything
done with the mail car? UNDER WHAT CIRCUMSTANCES WILL A TRAIN ROBBER
SHOOT A PASSENGER OR A TRAIN MAN--suppose a man refuses to throw up his
hands? Queer articles found on passengers (a chance here for some
imaginative work)--queer and laughable incidents of any kind. Refer
whenever apropos to actual hold-ups and facts concerning them of
interest. What could two or three brave and determined passengers do if
they were to try? Why don't they try? How long does it take to do the
business. Does the train man ever stand in with the hold-up? Best means
of getting away--how and when is the money divided. How is it mostly
spent. Best way to manoeuvre afterward. How to get caught and how not
to. Comment on the methods of officials who try to capture. (Here's your
chance to get even.)

These ideas are some that occur to me casually. You will, of course,
have many far better. I suggest that you make the article anywhere from
4,000 to 6,000 words. Get as much meat in it as you can, and, by the
way--stuff it full of western, GENUINE slang--(not the eastern story
paper kind). Get all the quaint cowboy expressions and terms of speech
you can think of.

INFORMATION is what we want, clothed in the peculiar western style of
the character we want to present. The main idea is to be NATURAL,
DIRECT, AND CONCISE.

I hope you will understand what I say. I don't. But try her a whack and
send it along as soon as you can, and let's see what we can do. By the
way, Mr. "Everybody" pays good prices. I thought I would, when I get
your story, put it into the shape my judgment decides upon, and then
send both your MS. and mine to the magazine. If he uses mine, we'll
whack up shares on the proceeds. If he uses yours, you get the check
direct. If he uses neither, we are out only a few stamps.

Sincerely your friend,
W. S. P.

* * * *

And here is the letter telling his "pard" that the article
had been bought by Everybody's Magazine. This is
dated Pittsburg, October 24th, obviously the same year:

DEAR PARD.

You're It. I always told you you were a genius. All you need is to
succeed in order to make a success.

I enclose your letter which explains itself. When you see your baby in
print don't blame me if you find strange ear marks and brands on it. I
slashed it and cut it and added lots of stuff that never happened, but I
followed your facts and ideas, and that is what made it valuable. I'll
think up some other idea for an article and we'll collaborate again some
time--eh?

I have all the work I can do, and am selling it right along. Have
averaged about $150 per month since August 1st. And yet I don't
overwork--don't think I ever will. I commence about 9 A. M. and
generally knock off about 4 or 5 P. M.

As soon as check mentioned in letter comes I'll send you your "sheer" of
the boodle.

By the way, please keep my nom de plume strictly to yourself. I don't
want any one to know, just yet.

Give my big regards to Billy. Reason with him and try to convince him
that we believe him to be pure merino and of more than average width.
With the kindest remembrances to yourself I remain,

Your friend,
W. S. P.

At this time O. Henry was unknown and thought himself lucky to sell a
story at any price.

-THE END-
[William Sydney Porter] O. Henry's short story: Fickle Fortune, or How Gladys Hustled

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