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

splenetic individual, and he 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 hoss and gallop wildly up to the store, enter with

something of the sang froid, grace, abandon and récherché 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 the

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 débris 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 a 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 recherché 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 toll. Come, the ice factory is deserted! No one sees

us. My partner, W. P. 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

revoir. 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 far 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 coming 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, as 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 her 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

SYDNEY PORTER.

MR. J. O. H. COSGRAVE

[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 5º. 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 16Ω. 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 six 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.

FRIDAY.

My Dear Col. Griffith:

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 1912, 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 coming

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 had 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.

N. Y., May 23, '05.

Dear Jennings:

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 financiering 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 pubrs 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.]