The Project Gutenberg eBook of Her Letter, His Answer & Her Last Letter

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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 ***
Endpapers
I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance
I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance
Title Page

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



















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.

LIST OF DESIGNS
 PAGE
I'm sitting alone by the fire
Dressed just as I came from the dance. (In color) Frontispiece
Title. (In color)
Publishers' Note—Headpiece5
List of Designs—Headpiece7

Her Letter—Half-title
11
Is wasting an hour upon you13
That waits—on the stairs—for me yet15
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?17
To look supernaturally grand19
And the hum of the smallest of talk21
With the man that shot Sandy McGee. (In color)23
The man that shot Sandy McGee25
Of that ride,—that to me was the rarest27
And swam the North Fork, and all that29
Mamma says my taste still is low31
That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches33
Page Number

His Answer—Half-title35
I should write what he runs off his tongue. (In color)37
Being asked by an intimate party39
That with you, Miss, he "challenges Fate"41
Though the claim not, at date, paying wages43
And the rose that you gave him. (In color)45
Is frequent and painful and free47
Imparts but small ease to the style49
In this green laurel spray that he treasures51
But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive53
For I have a small favor to ask you55
Here's my pile; which it's six hundred dollars57

Her Last Letter—Half-title
59
That you last wrote the 4th of December61
And you're not to be found in the ditches. (In color)63
From this spot, that you said was the fairest65
To London, when Pa wired, "Stop"67
And as to the stories you've heard69
Page Number

Whose father sold clothes on the Bar71
With a look, Joe, that made her eyes drop. (In color)73
To find myself here, all alone75
Ah! gone is the old necromancy77
And you called the place Eden, you know. (In color)79
And the copse where you once tied my shoe-knot81
There's the rustle of silk on the sidewalk83
But there's still the "lap, lap" of the river. (In color)85
There's a lot that remains which one fancies87
He thinks he may find you89
And good-night to the cañon that answers91
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
Tailpiece100
All the headpieces and other decorations are from Mr. Keller's designs.
Page Number

She

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.
Page Number

The belle of the season
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.
Page number

Likewise a proposal, half spoken
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,
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?"
Page Number

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?
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.
Page Number

If you saw poor dear Mamma contriving
If you saw poor dear Mamma contriving
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;"
Page Number

In the mists of a gaze de Chambéry,
In the mists of a gaze de Chambéry,
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;
Page Number

And how I once went down the middle
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee

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."
Page Number

Of that ride,—that to me was the rarest
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.
Page Number

And swam the North Fork, and all that,
And swam the North Fork, and all that,
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?
Page Number

Mamma says my taste still is low
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.
Page Number

That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
And you've struck it,—on Poverty Flat

Him

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.
Page Number

Which is why it is proper and decent
Which is why it is proper and decent
I should write what he runs off his tongue

Being asked by an intimate party
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).
Page Number

That "his spirits are buoyant as yours is;
That "his spirits are buoyant as yours is;"
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.)
Page Number

Though the claim not, at date, paying wages,
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,
And insists on his legs being free;
And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,
Is frequent and painful and free.)
Page Number

And the rose that you gave him

And the rose that you gave him
And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,
And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,
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."
Page Number

Which this dodging of pillows
Which this dodging of pillows
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.)
Page Number

In this green laurel-spray that he treasures
In this green laurel-spray that he treasures,
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.
Page Number

But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive
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.
Page Number

For I have a small favor to ask you
For I have a small favor to ask you,
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.
Page Number

Here's my pile; which it's six hundred dollars,
Here's my pile; which it's six hundred dollars,
As is yours, with respects

She

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;
Page Number

That you last wrote the 4th of December
That you last wrote the 4th of December,—
Just six months ago!—from this spot