Kitabı oku: «Her Letter, His Answer & Her Last Letter»

HER LETTER

 
I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire, —
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:
In short, sir, "the belle of the season"
Is wasting an hour upon you.
 
 
A dozen engagements I've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,
That waits – on the stairs – for me yet.
They say he'll be rich, – when he grows up, —
And then he adores me indeed;
And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.
 
 
"And how do I like my position?"
"And what do I think of New York?"
"And now, in my higher ambition,
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?"
"And isn't it nice to have riches,
And diamonds and silks, and all that?"
"And aren't they a change to the ditches
And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"
 
 
Well, yes, – if you saw us out driving
Each day in the Park, four-in-hand,
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand, —
If you saw papa's picture, as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that, —
You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.
 
 
And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier, —
In the bustle and glitter befitting
The "finest soirée of the year," —
In the mists of a gaze de Chambéry,
And the hum of the smallest of talk, —
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry,"
And the dance that we had on "The Fork;"
 
 
Of Harrison's barn, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle,
Of the dress of my queer vis-à-vis;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee;
 
 
Of the moon that was quietly sleeping
On the hill, when the time came to go;
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bedclothes of snow;
Of that ride, – that to me was the rarest;
Of – the something you said at the gate.
Ah! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress
To "the best-paying lead in the State."
 

 
 
 
Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion and beauty and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,
Of some one who breasted high water,
And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.
 
 
But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!
(Mamma says my taste still is low),
Instead of my triumphs reciting,
I'm spooning on Joseph, – heigh-ho!
And I'm to be "finished" by travel, —
Whatever's the meaning of that.
Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat?
 
 
Good-night! – here's the end of my paper;
Good-night! – if the longitude please, —
For maybe, while wasting my taper,
Your sun's climbing over the trees.
But know, if you haven't got riches,
And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,
That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
And you've struck it, – on Poverty Flat.
 

HIS ANSWER

 
Being asked by an intimate party, —
Which the same I would term as a friend, —
Though his health it were vain to call hearty,
Since the mind to deceit it might lend;
For his arm it was broken quite recent,
And there's something gone wrong with his lung, —
Which is why it is proper and decent
I should write what he runs off his tongue.
 
 
First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter
To the end, – and "the end came too soon;"
That a "slight illness kept him your debtor,"
(Which for weeks he was wild as a loon);
That "his spirits are buoyant as yours is;"
That with you, Miss, he "challenges Fate"
(Which the language that invalid uses
At times it were vain to relate).
 
 
And he says "that the mountains are fairer
For once being held in your thought;"
That each rock "holds a wealth that is rarer
Than ever by gold-seeker sought."
(Which are words he would put in these pages,
By a party not given to guile;
Though the claim not, at date, paying wages,
Might produce in the sinful a smile.)
 
 
He remembers the ball at the Ferry,
And the ride, and the gate, and the vow,
And the rose that you gave him, – that very
Same rose he is "treasuring now."
(Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk, Miss,
 

HER LAST LETTER

 
June 4th! Do you know what that date means?
June 4th! by this air and these pines!
Well, – only you know how I hate scenes, —
These might be my very last lines!
For perhaps, sir, you'll kindly remember —
If some other things you've forgot —
That you last wrote the 4th of December, —
Just six months ago! – from this spot;
 
 
From this spot, that you said was "the fairest
For once being held in my thought."
Now, really I call that the barest
Of – well, I won't say what I ought!
For here I am back from my "riches,"
My "triumphs," my "tours," and all that;
And you're not to be found in the ditches
Or temples of Poverty Flat!
 
 
From Paris we went for the season
To London, when pa wired, "Stop."
Mamma says "his health" was the reason.
(I've heard that some things took a "drop.")
But she said if my patience I'd summon
I could go back with him to the Flat —
Perhaps I was thinking of some one
Who of me – well – was not thinking that!
 
 
Of course you will say that I "never
Replied to the letter you wrote."
That is just like a man! But, however,
I read it – or how could I quote?
And as to the stories you've heard (No,
Don't tell me you haven't – I know!)
You'll not believe one blessed word, Joe;
But just whence they came, let them go!
 
 
And they came from Sade Lotski of Yolo,
Whose father sold clothes on the Bar —
You called him Job-lotski, you know, Joe,
And the boys said her value was par.
Well, we met her in Paris – just flaring
With diamonds, and lost in a hat!
And she asked me "How Joseph was faring
In his love-suit on Poverty Flat!"
 
 
She thought it would shame me! I met her
With a look, Joe, that made her eyes drop;
And I said that your "love-suit fared better
Than any suit out of their shop!"
And I didn't blush then– as I'm doing
To find myself here, all alone,
And left, Joe, to do all the "suing"
To a lover that's certainly flown.
 
 
In this brand-new hotel, called "The Lily"
(I wonder who gave it that name?),
I really am feeling quite silly,
To think I was once called the same;
And I stare from its windows, and fancy
I'm labeled to each passer-by.