Rolling Stones

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 JuneLies settled, and hot white traceryOf the shattered sunlight filters freeThrough the unstinted leaves to the pied cool sward;On a dead tree branch sings the saddest bardOf the birds that be;'Tis the lone Pewee.Its note is a sob, and its note is pitchedIn a single key, like a soul bewitchedTo a mournful minstrelsy."Pewee, Pewee," doth it ever cry;A sad, sweet minor threnodyThat threads the aisles of the dim hot groveLike a tale of a wrong or a vanished love;And the fancy comes that the wee dun birdPerchance was a maid, and her heart was stirredBy some lover's rhymeIn a golden time,And broke when the world turned false and cold;And her dreams grew dark and her faith grew coldIn some fairy far-off clime.And her soul crept into the Pewee's breast;And forever she cries with a strange unrestFor 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 liesSteeped in the languorous still sunshine,Rapt, to the leaf and the bough and the vineOf 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 downAnd 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 sleepAnd 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 peerThrough oozy channels when the breezeComes 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 craneStrikes at his prey; I turn to fly,At drops of sudden rain."In every little cry of birdI hear a tracking shout;From every sodden leaf that's stirredI see a face frown out;My soul shakes when the water ratCowed by the blue snake flies;Black knots from tree holes glimmer atMe with accusive eyes."Through all the murky silence ringsA cry not born of earth;An endless, deep, unechoing thingThat owns not human birth.I see no colors in the skySave red, as blood is red;I pray to God to still that cryFrom pallid lips and dead."One spot in all that stagnant wasteI shun as moles shun light,And turn my prow to make all hasteTo fly before the night.A poisonous mound hid from the sun,Where crabs hold revelry;Where eels and fishes feed uponThe 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 noteFrom out the awful groves."I shout with laughter through the night:I rage in greatest glee;My fears all vanish with the lightOh! 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 allThese 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 editorA 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 upTo a king full on eights.

THE OLD FARM

Just now when the whitening blossoms flareOn the apple trees and the growing grassCreeps forth, and a balm is in the air;With my lighted pipe and well-filled glassOf the old farm I am dreaming,And softly smiling, seemingTo see the bright sun beamingUpon 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 growI'd much rather be here dreamingAnd smiling, only seemingTo see the hot sun gleamingUpon the old home farm.

VANITY

A Poet sang so wondrous sweetThat 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 tearsAnd all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved.

THE LULLABY BOY

The lullaby boy to the same old tuneWho abandons his drum and toysFor the purpose of dying in early JuneIs 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 usRose 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 isThan 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 TroyThan to head Booth's old programme;I'd rather be special for the New York WorldThan 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 thingThat a real live man can use.I'd rather fight flies in a boarding houseThan fill Napoleon's grave,And snuggle up warm in my three slat bedThan be André the brave.I'd rather distribute a coat of redOn the town with a wad of doughJust now, than to have my cognomenSpelled "Michael Angelo."For a small live man, if he's prompt on handWhen the good things pass around,While the world's on tap has a better snapThan a big man under ground.

HARD TO FORGET

I'm thinking to-night of the old farm, Ned,And my heart is heavy and sadAs I think of the days that by have fledSince I was a little lad.There rises before me each spot I knowOf the old home in the dell,The fields, and woods, and meadows belowThat 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 bedTo plow on that darned old farm.

DROP A TEAR IN THIS SLOT

He who, when torrid Summer's sickly glareBeat 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 jokeWe all do know and always loved so well,And of cool breezes and sweet girls that layIn shady nooks, and pleasant windy covesAnonWill in that self-same room, with tattered quiltWrapped 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 coarsePapa puts up the pipe of parlor stove.So yeWho greet with tears this olden favorite,Drop one for him who, though he strives to pleaseMust write about the things he never sees.

TAMALES

This is the MexicanDon José CalderonOne of God's countrymen.Land of the buzzard.Cheap silver dollar, andCacti and murderers.Why has he left his landLand of the lazy man,Land of the pulqueLand 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 benefitOf priest or clergy;Died full of minie balls,Mescal and pepper.Don José CalderonHeard of the tragedy.Heard of it, thought of it,Vowed a deep vengeance;Vowed retributionOn the Americans,Murderous gringos,Especially Texans."Valga me Dios! queLadrones, diablos,Matadores, mentidores,Caraccos y perros,Voy a matarles,Con solos mis manos,Toditas sin falta."Thus swore the HidalgoDon 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 inDun 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 swiftlyTomcats and puppy dogs,Caught them and cooked them,Don José Calderon,Vower of vengeance.Now on the sidewalkSits the avengerSelling Tamales toInnocent purchasers.Dire is thy vengeance,Oh, José Calderon,Pitiless NemesisFearful RedresserOf the wrongs done to thySainted 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 maidensBuy and devour,Gentle society youthsBuy and devour.Buy and devourThis thing called Tamale;Made of rat terrier,Spitz dog and poodle.Maltese cat, boarding houseSteak and red pepper.Garlic and tallow,Corn meal and shucks.Buy without shameSit on store steps and eat,Stand on the street and eat,Ride on the cars and eat,Strewing the shucks aroundOver creation.Dire is thy vengeance,Don José Calderon.For the slight thing we didKilling thy grandfather.What boots it if we killedOnly one greaser,Don José Calderon?This is your deep revenge,You have greased all of us,Greased a whole nationWith your Tamales,Don José Calderon.Santos Esperiton,Vincente Camillo,Quitana de Rios,De Rosa y Ribera.

LETTERS

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

"the Callie" —

Excavation Road – Sundy.

my dear mr. hall:

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

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

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

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

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

"YOU'RE ALIVE!"

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

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

Yours truly

O. henry

28 West 26th St.,

West of broadway

Mr. hall, part editor

of everybody's.

Kyntoekneeyough Ranch, November 31, 1883

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

Dear Mrs. Hall:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours very truly,W. S. Porter.

To Dr. W. P. Beall

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

La Salle County, Texas, December 8, 1883.

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

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

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

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

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

As I said before, the characters in the play are purely imaginary, and therefore not to be confounded with real persons. But lest any one, feeling some of the idiosyncrasies and characteristics apply too forcibly to his own high moral and irreproachable self, should allow his warlike and combative spirits to arise, you might as you go, kind of casually like, produce the impression that I rarely miss my aim with a Colt's forty-five, but if that does not have the effect of quieting the splenetic individual, and 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,