Just once, if I may—and then I will try to think of you as Caroline.
I was gladder to get your little note than the biggest editor’s
check I ever saw. Seems to me (after trying very hard) I do
remember a small “sassy” girl that used to live next door.
When you ask if I remember you, it reminds me of a story told
of Congressman John Allen of Mississipi—(never could spell
Mississip)—is that right? A lady approached him in Washington one
day and held out her hand. “Now confess, Mr. Allen,” she said,
“that you’ve forgotten all about me.”
He had; he knew her face, but his memory wouldn’t serve him any
further. But, with a low bow, he replied: “Madam, I’ve made it the
business of my life to try to forget you.”
See?—as we New Yorkers say.
Well, well, how time does fly! as the little boy said when his
teacher told him Rome was founded in 684 B. C. I never
expected anything so nice and jolly as to hear from you. It’s like
finding a five-dollar bill in an old vest pocket.
Isn’t it funny that I was thinking of you a little while last week?
I had a map, looking all about on it trying to decide on somewhere
to go for a few weeks to get away from the city. Mountains for me
always! So my eye naturally ran down the Blue Ridge chain. Here’s
the latest picture of the distinguished Mr. Haralson. Does it look
anything like the moonstruck little shrimp that used to hang around
and bother you so much? I can remember what an awkward, bashful,
sentimental, ugly, uninteresting nuisance I was then. No wonder
I couldn’t make any impression on you! I’ve improved a good deal
since. In fact, it seems to me that the older I grow the better
looking and more fascinating I become. Of course it doesn’t seem
just right for me to say so, but if I didn’t tell you you mightn’t
ever find it out.
In those days I took life mighty seriously and sentimentally:
that’s why I always went about looking like a monkey with the
toothache; but in after years I learned that life is only a jolly
good comedy for the most part, and I began to enjoy it. I believe
I’m about five years younger than I was the last time you saw
me—when you left the depot in Roseboro for Marsville. Ernest Cold
rode up with you on the train; and I haven’t forgiven him for it
yet.
It’s mighty nice of you to say you would be able to stand seeing
me again if I should come to Marsville. I shore would love to
ride up and holler “Hello!” over the fence. Lemme see! Trip to
Europe—automobiles—steam yacht—Rockefeller’s money—no, none of
those things sound half as good. But lawsy me! I don’t know when I
shall ever drap down your way.
I’ve about decided to go up along the Maine coast fishing with an
editor man. I live in a room or two as big as a barn on Waverly
Place. I’m so lazy and cool and contented there all by myself with
my books and things that I haven’t been away from town in two
summers.
Now, I’m not going to talk about myself any more. I’ve been in New
York about four years, and I guess I’ve “made good,” for everything
I write is engaged long before it is written.
I’ve been puzzling over your signature. It’s the same old name you
had when you wore your hair in a plait; and I have two very good
reasons for thinking it ought to be different. One is that somebody
wrote me several years ago that you had married; and the other is
that it isn’t possible—it isn’t _possible_—that the young men of
our old state could be so unappreciative as to have let you escape.
But if you are married, please, oh, please get a divorce at once,
so you can be “Miss Carrie” again.
I am trusting to your good nature to accept a little book of mine
that came out last winter. You don’t have to read it, you know.
It’s just the thing to prop the kitchen door when the wind is in
the east.
And, Miss Carrie, some day when you ain’t real busy won’t you sit
at your desk where you keep those antiquated stories, and write to
me? I’d be so pleased to hear something about what the years have
done for you, and what you think about when the tree frogs begin to
holler in the evenings. Got any tree frogs up there?
Do this, and I’ll promise to say “Caroline” next time.
Let me say once more how good it was to hear from you, and that I
am, yours sincerely,
ROBERT HARALSON.
_September 28th._
The picture and the book have come. The picture is splendid. It
dominates my room.
Bobby _was_ awfully fond of me. Lots of things I had forgotten come
back as I look at the picture—the night he was allowed by mother
after some hours of hard begging to take me to Commencement at the
Female Seminary in old Roseboro and sat with his arm stretched on the
back of the bench. I did not think it would be nice of me to ask him
to remove it, and my back aches right now again at thought of the
rigidity of my spine through the long hours of that female evening.
You would not be guilty of such a ruralism now, Mr. Cosmopolite.
I have written him. It is only polite to let him know that I
appreciate the picture and the book.
_October 2d.
Monday Afternoon._
Bobby’s letter was here this afternoon when I got in from school.
Wasn’t it marvellous that it could get here? My eyes went straight
to the table and I felt kind of queer and quivery all over when I
saw the big square envelope with the bold handwriting that looked as
familiar as if I had been getting his letters all my life. Here is
his letter:
_New York, September 30th._