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 - xa - - - rip N - 2 - 92.
QUERIES AND ANSWERS
[From _The Rolling Stone_, June 23, 1894.]
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 and the vine
Of some hopeless paradise.
NOTHING TO SAY
"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.
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 BOHÊME
_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 André 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 José 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 José 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 José 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 José Calderon,
Champion of Mexico,
Don José Calderon,
Seeker of vengeance.
With his stout lariat,
Then he caught swiftly
Tomcats and puppy dogs,
Caught them and cooked them,
Don José Calderon,
Vower of vengeance.
Now on the sidewalk
Sits the avenger
Selling Tamales to
Innocent purchasers.
Dire is thy vengeance,
Oh, José 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, boarding house
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 José Calderon.
For the slight thing we did
Killing thy grandfather.
What boots it if we killed
Only one greaser,
Don José Calderon?
This is your deep revenge,
You have greased all of us,
Greased a whole nation
With your Tamales,
Don José Calderon.
Santos Esperiton,
Vincente Camillo,
Quitana de Rios,
De Rosa y Ribera.
[Illustration: A letter to his daughter Margaret.]
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