Here’s a magnolia.
I know you believe I am “without the pale” and “N. G.,” but I write
again because I do not believe that I am.
If you come to N. Y. this spring I reckon as how you won’t want
to see me because you think I am short on etiquette. All right
for youse! I’ll watch all the rubberneck coaches, and when I see
a little pink-cheeked girl in a straw hat with daisies on it and
a white dress with a pink sash, chewing sweetgum—(for shame,
Bobby)—and making eyes at the Brooklyn Bridge, I’ll know who it is,
and look at you all I please.
So, au revoir, Miss Howard. I am still yours sincerely.