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Title: Her Letter, His Answer & Her Last Letter
Author: Bret Harte
Illustrator: Arthur Ignatius Keller
Release date: November 7, 2010 [eBook #34227]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, David Garcia, Emmy and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HER LETTER, HIS ANSWER & HER LAST LETTER ***
I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance
Dressed just as I came from the dance
HER LETTER
His Answer & Her Last Letter
By BRET HARTE
Pictured by ARTHUR I KELLER
Boston & New York.
Houghton, Mifflin & Company
The Riverside Press, Cambridge.
1905
COPYRIGHT 1870 BY FIELDS, OSGOOD & CO.
COPYRIGHT 1871 BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.
COPYRIGHT 1898 AND 1899 BY BRET HARTE.
COPYRIGHT 1905 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COPYRIGHT 1871 BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.
COPYRIGHT 1898 AND 1899 BY BRET HARTE.
COPYRIGHT 1905 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PUBLISHERS' NOTE The first two of the poems here printed have long been popular favorites, but the third was not written till near the end of Mr. Harte's life. It rounds out the romance with such completeness and charm that it is peculiarly fitting that the poems should be grouped, and issued in a form worthy of their own excellence. The coöperation of Mr. Keller was secured for making the illustrations, not only on account of his recognized ability as an artist, but also because of his admiration for Mr. Harte's writings and his previous success in illustrating several of the stories. Boston, 4 Park St., October, 1905. |
| PAGE | |
| I'm sitting alone by the fire Dressed just as I came from the dance. (In color) Frontispiece | |
| Title. (In color) | |
| Publishers' Note—Headpiece | 5 |
| List of Designs—Headpiece | 7 |
Her Letter—Half-title | 11 |
| Is wasting an hour upon you | 13 |
| That waits—on the stairs—for me yet | 15 |
| With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk? | 17 |
| To look supernaturally grand | 19 |
| And the hum of the smallest of talk | 21 |
| With the man that shot Sandy McGee. (In color) | 23 |
| The man that shot Sandy McGee | 25 |
| Of that ride,—that to me was the rarest | 27 |
| And swam the North Fork, and all that | 29 |
| Mamma says my taste still is low | 31 |
| That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches | 33 |
| His Answer—Half-title | 35 |
| I should write what he runs off his tongue. (In color) | 37 |
| Being asked by an intimate party | 39 |
| That with you, Miss, he "challenges Fate" | 41 |
| Though the claim not, at date, paying wages | 43 |
| And the rose that you gave him. (In color) | 45 |
| Is frequent and painful and free | 47 |
| Imparts but small ease to the style | 49 |
| In this green laurel spray that he treasures | 51 |
| But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive | 53 |
| For I have a small favor to ask you | 55 |
| Here's my pile; which it's six hundred dollars | 57 |
Her Last Letter—Half-title | 59 |
| That you last wrote the 4th of December | 61 |
| And you're not to be found in the ditches. (In color) | 63 |
| From this spot, that you said was the fairest | 65 |
| To London, when Pa wired, "Stop" | 67 |
| And as to the stories you've heard | 69 |
| Whose father sold clothes on the Bar | 71 |
| With a look, Joe, that made her eyes drop. (In color) | 73 |
| To find myself here, all alone | 75 |
| Ah! gone is the old necromancy | 77 |
| And you called the place Eden, you know. (In color) | 79 |
| And the copse where you once tied my shoe-knot | 81 |
| There's the rustle of silk on the sidewalk | 83 |
| But there's still the "lap, lap" of the river. (In color) | 85 |
| There's a lot that remains which one fancies | 87 |
| He thinks he may find you | 89 |
| And good-night to the cañon that answers | 91 |
| I've just got your note. You deceiver! | 93 |
| Now I know why they had me transferred here. (In color) | 95 |
| How dared you get rich—you great stupid! | 97 |
| The man who shot Sandy McGee | |
| You made mayor! | 99 |
| Tailpiece | 100 |
All the headpieces and other decorations are from Mr. Keller's designs.
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.
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.
In short, sir, "the belle of the season"
Is wasting an hour upon you
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.
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.
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,
That waits—on the stairs—for me yet
That waits—on the stairs—for me yet
"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?"
"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?"
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?
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.
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.
If you saw poor dear Mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand
To look supernaturally grand
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;"
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;"
In the mists of a gaze de Chambéry,
And the hum of the smallest of talk
And the hum of the smallest of talk
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 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;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee
With the man that shot Sandy McGee
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."
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."
Of that ride,—that to me was the rarest
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.
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.
And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter
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?
(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?
Mamma says my taste still is low
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.
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.
That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
And you've struck it,—on Poverty Flat
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.
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.
Which is why it is proper and decent
I should write what he runs off his tongue
I should write what he runs off his tongue
Being asked by an intimate party
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).
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).
That "his spirits are buoyant as yours is;"
That with you, Miss, he "challenges Fate"
That with you, Miss, he "challenges Fate"
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.)
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.)
Though the claim not, at date, paying wages,
Might produce in the sinful a smile
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,
And insists on his legs being free;
And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,
Is frequent and painful and free.)
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,
And insists on his legs being free;
And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,
Is frequent and painful and free.)
And the rose that you gave him
And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,
Is frequent and painful and free
Is frequent and painful and free
He hopes you are wearing no willows,
But are happy and gay all the while;
That he knows—(which this dodging of pillows
Imparts but small ease to the style,
And the same you will pardon)—he knows, Miss,
That, though parted by many a mile,
"Yet, were he lying under the snows, Miss,
They'd melt into tears at your smile."
But are happy and gay all the while;
That he knows—(which this dodging of pillows
Imparts but small ease to the style,
And the same you will pardon)—he knows, Miss,
That, though parted by many a mile,
"Yet, were he lying under the snows, Miss,
They'd melt into tears at your smile."
Which this dodging of pillows
Imparts but small ease to the style
Imparts but small ease to the style
And "you'll still think of him in your pleasures,
In your brief twilight dreams of the past;
In this green laurel spray that he treasures,—
It was plucked where your parting was last;
In this specimen,—but a small trifle,—
It will do for a pin for your shawl."
(Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle,
Was his last week's "clean up,"—and his all.)
In your brief twilight dreams of the past;
In this green laurel spray that he treasures,—
It was plucked where your parting was last;
In this specimen,—but a small trifle,—
It will do for a pin for your shawl."
(Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle,
Was his last week's "clean up,"—and his all.)
In this green laurel-spray that he treasures,
It was plucked where your parting was last
It was plucked where your parting was last
He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss,
Were it not that I scorn to deny
That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss,
In view that his fever was high;
But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive.
And now, my respects, Miss, to you;
Which my language, although comprehensive,
Might seem to be freedom, is true.
Were it not that I scorn to deny
That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss,
In view that his fever was high;
But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive.
And now, my respects, Miss, to you;
Which my language, although comprehensive,
Might seem to be freedom, is true.
But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive
For I have a small favor to ask you,
As concerns a bull-pup, and the same,—
If the duty would not overtask you,—
You would please to procure for me, game;
And send per express to the Flat, Miss,—
For they say York is famed for the breed,
Which, though words of deceit may be that, Miss,
I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.
As concerns a bull-pup, and the same,—
If the duty would not overtask you,—
You would please to procure for me, game;
And send per express to the Flat, Miss,—
For they say York is famed for the breed,
Which, though words of deceit may be that, Miss,
I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.
For I have a small favor to ask you,
As concerns a bull-pup
As concerns a bull-pup
P.S.—Which this same interfering
Into other folks' way I despise;
Yet if it so be I was hearing
That it's just empty pockets as lies
Between you and Joseph, it follers
That, having no family claims,
Here's my pile, which it's six hundred dollars
As is yours, with respects,
Truthful James.
Into other folks' way I despise;
Yet if it so be I was hearing
That it's just empty pockets as lies
Between you and Joseph, it follers
That, having no family claims,
Here's my pile, which it's six hundred dollars
As is yours, with respects,
Truthful James.
Here's my pile; which it's six hundred dollars,
As is yours, with respects
As is yours, with respects
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;
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;
That you last wrote the 4th of December,—
Just six months ago!—from this spot
Just six months ago!—from this spot