Postscripts
by
O. Henry
With an Introduction
by
Florence Stratton
Publishers
Harper & Brothers
New York and London
MCMXXIII
Postscripts
Copyright, 1923, by Houston Post
Copyright, 1923, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the U. S. A.
Foreword
It is probable that with the presentation of these, among the earliest
of the writings of William Sidney Porter (O. Henry), there is nothing
left to be added to the total of his work, and that they will close,
as they in a large measure opened the career of America’s greatest
short story writer.
Aside from the intrinsic merit in the newspaper writings of O. Henry
which are here given, they have the additional fascination of
disclosing to all who have read and know O. Henry from his maturer
work the budding of his genius, the first outcroppings of that style,
that vivid drawing of character, that keen sense of humor, and that
wondrous understanding of human nature which afterward marked him as
one of the world’s geniuses. It is as though one might go back and
watch with eyes that have seen its fullest development and matured
beauty, the forming and unfolding of a rose; as though one who has
listened to the plaudits of centuries might go back four hundred years
and see and study Raphael as he began to wield the brush which
subsequently wrought such wonderful magic.
Having a high appreciation of the genius of O. Henry, the compiler
took occasion while spending a year in Austin, Texas, where O. Henry
had lived, to ask his friends and neighbors about him. Among them was
Mr. Ed McLean, secretary to the railroad commission, a personal friend
of O. Henry’s, who told her about the column O. Henry had conducted on
the Houston Post. He thought O. Henry must have worked for the
Post some time in the latter part of 1896 to the fall of 1897.
A visit to the Houston Post office and a search through the
files of that period were without results. But a call on Mr. A. E.
Clarkson, who was with the Post then and who is now business
manager of the Post, was more successful. Mr. Clarkson looked
up the old records in the business office, showing when O. Henry
received pay checks, which served as a guide to pages of a year
earlier, where the altogether distinctive touch of O. Henry proved
that the goal was reached. Here was found the same discernment, the
same insight, the same humor, the same style which runs through all
his work like a marked thread interwoven into a rare fabric. In many
of the brief paragraphs and short stories were found the idioplasm
which in the rich soil of his fuller experience grew into some of the
masterpieces of his later life.
Thus in the files of the Houston Post of the period between
October 18, 1895, and June 22, 1896, were found the writings which
make up this volume. It was characteristic of O. Henry’s modesty that
these were unsigned. They are published as they originally appeared in
“Tales of the Town,” “Postscripts and Pencillings,” and “Some
Postscripts,” under which titles O. Henry wrote at different times
during his association with the Post.
But the rediscovery of this work was not enough. To identify it as
beyond question of doubt as that of O. Henry was imperative. To have
offered these writings with less of precaution would have savored of
literary vandalism, if not sacrilege. This identification has been
made, and its sources are herewith given the reader as a part of the
introduction of this volume.
Here is an account by Mr. R. M. Johnston, who formerly controlled the
Houston Post, of how he gave O. Henry the job in which he was
first to demonstrate his remarkable story-telling gifts:
Houston, Texas, October 21, 1922.
Miss Florence Stratton,
Beaumont, Texas.
My dear Miss Stratton:
You asked me to write some incidents of O. Henry’s
connection with the Houston Post when I controlled
that newspaper and I am glad to comply with your request.
The first thing I ever heard of Mr. Porter, whose
writing name was O. Henry, was when some one sent me a copy
of the little publication, “The Rolling Stone,” published in
Austin. This was sent me by Mr. Ed McLean, Secretary of the
Railroad Commission, a mutual friend of Mr. Porter and
myself. Mr. McLean made the suggestion that Porter would be
worth considering for a place as a writer on the
Post. After reading The Rolling Stone I made
an appointment through Mr. McLean with Mr. Porter, who was
at that time an employe of one of the banks at Austin.
Subsequently I met him and made a contract with him to join
the Post editorial staff which he did in a short
time. While on the paper his duties were somewhat of a
varied nature. He had, however, a column on the editorial
page daily filled with witticism, quaint little stories,
etc. He also did some special assignment work in a very
magnificent way.
One morning while sitting at my desk he came to my
office in his usual quiet, dignified way and laid a piece of
cardboard on my table with the remark, “I don’t suppose you
will want this, but I thought I would let you look at it,”
and he walked out. After he had gone, I picked up the
cardboard and found it was an unusual cartoon. I was so
struck with it that I took it to his room and remarked,
“Porter, did you do this?” He looked up with a faint smile,
and said “Yes.” I said to him that I did not know that he
was a cartoonist, and his reply was that he did that kind of
work for his own amusement at odd times.
To make a long story short, we were in the midst of a
very warm political campaign in Texas and during the
campaign he drew some of the most magnificent cartoons that
I have ever seen in print anywhere. They attracted
attention, not only in Texas, but were copied freely
throughout the United States.
Mr. Porter was a lovely character and one of the
brightest men that I have ever come in contact with. He was
modest, almost to the fault of self-effacement. His leaving
the Houston Post was an irretrievable loss to the
paper, but the means possibly of developing the greatest
short story writer of this or any other age.
Very sincerely your friend,
(Signed) R. M. Johnston.
A letter from former Governor Hobby of Texas, who worked with O. Henry on the Post during the time that he was producing the column:
Office of
W. P. HOBBY
Houston,
Texas.
502 Carter Building,
Houston, Texas.
October 10, 1922.
Miss Florence Stratton,
Beaumont, Texas.
My dear Miss Stratton:
In the first years of my employment by the Houston
Post, O. Henry, whose name was Sidney Porter, was a
member of the Post staff. As is well known, Mr.
Porter began his daily journalistic work as a special
feature writer for the Houston Post and the human
interest and literary attractiveness of his writings were
a source of delight to Texas readers.
I enjoyed my acquaintance and association with Mr.
Porter while a youth in the business office of the Houston
Post and not only the stories that he would write,
but those he would tell me, made a deep impression on my
mind.
Mr. Porter’s work was that of publishing a special
feature column, “Some Postscripts and Pencillings” on the
editorial page of the Post during 1895–96, and I
think a reproduction of his daily writings in that column,
which then were followed by the readers of the Texas
newspaper readers of the nation.
Mr. A. E. Clarkson, secretary-treasurer of the Houston Post, authenticates the O. Henry column from his personal knowledge.
Houston, Texas.
October 16, 1922.
Miss Florence Stratton,
2020 Harrison,
Beaumont, Texas.
My dear Miss Stratton:
In reply to your letter of October 15, I find that Mr.
Porter, afterward known as O. Henry, was on the payroll of
the Houston Post from October 1895 to June 1896.
During that time Mr. Porter wrote, and there was
published from time to time in the columns of the
Post various articles headed “Some Postscripts” and
“Postscripts and Pencillings.”
The writer was also connected with the Post
during this period, being in the business office. He was
personally acquainted with Mr. Porter and knows of his own
knowledge that the articles headed as stated above were
written by him.
Neither the compilation, verification, nor publication of these
newspaper writings of O. Henry would have been possible without the
co-operation of Mr. Roy G. Watson, present proprietor and publisher of
the Houston Post, whose consent for their publication has been
generously given; and of Governor William P. Hobby, Colonel R. M.
Johnston, and Mr. A. E. Clarkson, all associated with the Post
during O. Henry’s employment, and to these, whose attestation of
authenticity of this work is herewith given, the compiler is grateful.
The doing of this work has been a labor of love, and if the result is
to add to the luster of O. Henry’s name the writer shall have been
repaid.
No pen is so facile as to add to or detract from the fame of William
Sidney Porter. The flame of his genius has been extinguished, but what
he wrought in a vast understanding of humanity will ever illuminate
American literature.
Florence Stratton.
April, 1923.
With respect to O. Henry’s services, the Houston Post states as
follows:
Between musty covers of the Post files from October, 1895, to
July, 1896, are cross-sections of life drawn by a master artist;
vignettes as perfect and as beautiful as the finest Amsterdam diamond.
Only they are comparatively unknown because they have been
overshadowed by larger and more brilliant creations of the same master
hand.
Verses beautiful and appealing; description, touched by wonderful
imagery; dialogue, the lines of which sparkle with wit and
understanding of human frailties!
They make up O. Henry’s “Tales of the Town,” his “Postscripts and
Pencillings,” and his “Some Postscripts.” Save for the publication for
a brief space of The Rolling Stone, a rollicking sheet that was
issued irregularly over the period of several months, they represent
the sum total of O. Henry’s newspaper writings.
All too brief to suit lovers of O. Henry’s work, they nevertheless
betray the writer’s knack of getting at the heart and mind of his
fellow beings. They show him as well acquainted with the newsdealer on
the corner as with his favorite hotel clerk; as much at home in
talking with a puncher from the Panhandle as in conversing with a
drummer from St. Louis. Into them the master of the short story
managed to crowd uncanny description, insight into human nature, and
the highly dramatic.
O. Henry came to the Post at the invitation of its editor and
his first column appeared in the Post on October 18th entitled
“Tales of the Town.” The caption soon changed to “Postscripts and
Pencillings” and later still to “Some Postscripts.”
Some days a column of seven-point! Others only half a column. Still
others when “Some Postscripts” failed to appear at all.
But always, whatever the quantity, the quality of O. Henry’s output
remained at high level.
As in the later days in New York, O. Henry was exceedingly modest and
shy. He “took a little getting acquainted with” according to tradition
handed down. A quiet, unassuming chap, with eyes which seemingly saw
little and yet took in everything, the new member of the staff soon
acquired a reputation of being the best listener in town. In addition,
he was a painstakingly accurate reporter and observer.
O. Henry came to the Post under his real name of Sidney Porter,
but it was as “The Post Man” that he referred to himself in his
writings. The pronoun “I” seldom appeared.
According to friends, O. Henry, or Sidney Porter, possessed the most
valuable trick of the interviewer. When the telling of a story lagged
momentarily, he would insert just the right question in just the right
place. And this show of interest never failed to stimulate the teller
to a fresh spurt.
Favorite haunts in Houston were the lobby of the old Hutchins House,
the Grand Central Depot, and the street corners. He used to sit for
hours in the hotel, his eyes playing over the faces of guests. Mayhap
he was studying types, who knows? Certain, though, it is that hotel
attaches grew to love the author of “Some Postscripts,” and they
frequently went out of their way to send him word of stories on the
old hotel’s ancient register.
At the Grand Central Depot—Grand Central then as now—“The Post Man”
was loved by all who knew him. From station master to porter, from
superintendent to telegraph operator, the writer of “Some Postscripts”
got help and inspiration for many of his brilliant anecdotes and human
interest stories.
Then, as later in New York, it was the man in the street who claimed
his chief attention. Feted though he was by some who thought to
patronize him, “The Post Man” refused to allow his head to be turned
by admiration. He continued the even tenor of his way, writing the
things which most appealed to him.
Abundant and spontaneous as was O. Henry’s literary output, his jokes
were never barbed. There is no record of anyone ever coming to the
Post editorial room to “lick” the author of “Some Postscripts.”
Rather there came to him many picturesque figures of the Southwest,
eager to make the acquaintance of the rising young “colyumist.”
At a time when bicycles and bloomers were agitating the news writers
of the country, O. Henry took delight in caricaturing the customs. His
sketches of bloomered, career-seeking women and timid husbands are at
once a delight and a revelation.
O. Henry’s brilliant style, together with his never-flagging wit and
his seemingly inexhaustible fund of anecdote quickly captured his
contemporaries among Texas newspaper men. “The man, woman, or child,”
wrote an exchange in 1896, “who pens ‘Some Postscripts’ in the Houston
Post, is a weird genius, and ought to be captured and put on
exhibition.”
It was soon after this that O. Henry was advised to go to New York,
where his ability would command a higher remuneration. But after
making all preparations to try his wings in the great metropolis, Fate
intervened and O. Henry went instead to South America.
The last columns of O. Henry’s brilliant paragraphs appeared in the
Post of June 22, 1896.
Postscripts
The Sensitive Colonel Jay
The sun is shining brightly, and the birds are singing merrily in the
trees! All nature wears an aspect of peace and harmony. On the porch
of a little hotel in a neighboring county a stranger is sitting on a
bench waiting for the train, quietly smoking his pipe.
Presently a tall man wearing boots and a slouch hat, steps to the door
of the hotel from the inside with a six-shooter in his hand and fires.
The man on the bench rolls over with a loud yell as the bullet grazes
his ear. He springs to his feet in amazement and wrath and shouts:
“What are you shooting at me for?”
The tall man advances with his slouch hat in his hand, bows and says:
“Beg pardon, sah. I am Colonel Jay, sah, and I understood you to
insult me, sah, but I see I was mistaken. Am very glad I did not kill
you, sah.”
“I insult you—how?” inquires the stranger. “I never said a word.”
“You tapped on the bench, sah, as much as to say you was a woodpeckah,
sah, and I belong to the other faction. I see now that you was only
knockin’ the ashes from you’ pipe, sah. I ask yo’ pahdon, and that you
will come in and have a drink with me, sah, to show that you do not
harbor any ill feeling after a gentleman apologizes to you, sah.”
A Matter of Loyalty
Two men were talking at the Grand Central depot yesterday, and one of
them was telling about a difficulty he had recently been engaged in.
“He said I was the biggest liar ever heard in Texas,” said the man,
“and I jumped on him and blacked both his eyes in about a minute.”
“That’s right,” said the other man, “a man ought to resent an
imputation of that sort right away.”
“It wasn’t exactly that,” said the first speaker, “but Tom Achiltree
is a second cousin of mine, and I won’t stand by and hear any man
belittle him.”
Taking No
Chances
“Let’s see,” said the genial manager as he looked over the atlas.
“Here’s a town one might strike on our way back. Antananarivo, the
capital of Madagascar, is a city of 100,000 inhabitants.”
“That sounds promising,” said Mark Twain, running his hands through
his busy curls, “read some more about it.”
“The people of Madagascar,” continued the genial manager, reading from
his book, “are not a savage race and few of the tribes could be
classed as barbarian people. There are many native orators among them,
and their language abounds in figures, metaphors, and parables, and
ample evidence is given of the mental ability of the inhabitants.”
“Sounds like it might be all right,” said the humorist, “read some
more.”
“Madagascar is the home,” read the manager, “of an enormous bird
called the epyornis, that lays an egg 15½ by 9½ in. in size, weighing
from ten to twelve pounds. These eggs—”
“Never mind reading any more,” said Mark Twain. “We will not go to
Madagascar.”
The Other Side of It
There is an item going the rounds of the press relative to the
well-known curiosity of woman. It states that if a man brings a
newspaper home out of which a piece has been clipped his wife will
never rest until she has procured another paper to see what it was
that had been cut out.
A Houston man was quite impressed with the idea, so he resolved to
make the experiment. One night last week he cut out of the day’s paper
a little two-inch catarrh cure advertisement, and left the mutilated
paper on the table where his wife would be sure to read it.
He picked up a book and pretended to be interested, while he watched
her glance over the paper. When she struck the place where the piece
had been cut, she frowned and seemed to be thinking very seriously.
However, she did not say anything about it and the man was in doubt as
to whether her curiosity had been aroused or not.
The next day when he came home to dinner she met him at the door with
flashing eyes and an ominous look about her jaw.
“You miserable, deceitful wretch!” she cried. “After living all these
years with you to find that you have been basely deceiving me and
leading a double life, and bringing shame and sorrow upon your
innocent family! I always thought you were a villain and a reprobate,
and now I have positive proof of the fact.”
“Wh—wha—what do you mean, Maria?” he gasped. “I haven’t been doing
anything.”
“Of course you are ready to add lying to your catalogue of vices.
Since you pretend not to understand me—look at this.”
She held up to his gaze a complete paper of the issue of the day
before.
“You thought to hide your actions from me by cutting out part of the
paper, but I was too sharp for you.”
“Why that was just a little joke, Maria. I didn’t think you would take
it seriously. I—”
“Do you call that a joke, you shameless wretch?” she cried, spreading
the paper before him.
The man looked and read in dismay. In cutting out the catarrh
advertisement he had never thought to see what was on the other side
of it, and this was the item that appeared, to one reading the other
side of the page, to have been clipped:
A gentleman about town, who stands well in business
circles, had a high old time last night in a certain
restaurant where he entertained at supper a couple of
chorus ladies belonging to the comic opera company now in
the city. Loud talking and breaking of dishes attracted
some attention, but the matter was smoothed over, owing to
the prominence of the gentleman referred to.
“You call that a joke, do you, you old reptile,” shrieked the excited
lady. “I’m going home to mamma this evening and I’m going to stay
there. Thought you’d fool me by cutting it out, did you? You sneaking,
dissipated old snake you! I’ve got my trunk nicely packed and I’m
going straight home—don’t you come near me!”
“Maria,” gasped the bewildered man. “I swear I—”
“Don’t add perjury to your crimes, sir!”
The man tried unsuccessfully to speak three or four times, and then
grabbed his hat and ran downtown. Fifteen minutes later he came back
bringing two new silk dress patterns, four pounds of caramels, and his
bookkeeper and three clerks to prove that he was hard at work in the
store on the night in question.
The affair was finally settled satisfactorily, but there is one
Houston man who has no further curiosity about woman’s curiosity.
Journalistically Impossible
“Did you report that suicide as I told you to do last night?” asked
the editor of the new reporter, a graduate of a school of journalism.
“I saw the corpse, sir, but found it impossible to write a description
of the affair.”
“Why?”
“How in the world was I to state that the man’s throat was cut from
ear to ear when he had only one ear?”
The Power of Reputation
One night last week in San Antonio a tall, solemn-looking man, wearing
a silk hat, walked into a hotel bar from the office, and stood by the
stove where a group of men were sitting smoking and talking. A fat
man, who noticed him go in, asked the hotel clerk who it was. The
clerk told his name and the fat man followed the stranger into the
barroom, casting at him glances of admiration and delight.
“Pretty cold night, gentlemen, for a warm country,” said the man in
the silk hat.
“Oh—ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!” yelled the fat man, bursting into a loud laugh.
“That’s pretty good.”
The solemn man looked surprised and went on warming himself at the
stove.
Presently one of the men sitting by the stove said:
“That old Turkey over in Europe doesn’t seem to be making much noise
now.”
“No,” said the solemn man, “it seems like the other nations are doing
all the gobbling.”
The fat man let out a yell and laid down and rolled over and over on
the floor. “Gosh ding it,” he howled, “that’s the best thing I ever
heard. Ah—ha—ha—ha—ha—ha! Come on, gentlemen, and have something on
that.”
The invitation seemed to all hands to be a sufficient apology for all
his ill-timed merriment, and they ranged along the bar. While the
drinks were being prepared, the fat man slipped along the line and
whispered something in the ear of everyone, except the man with the
silk hat. When he got through a broad smile spread over the faces of
the crowd.
“Well, gentlemen, here’s fun!” said the solemn man as he raised his
glass.
The whole party, with one accord, started off into a perfect roar of
laughter, spilling half their drinks on the bar and floor.
“Did you ever hear such a flow of wit?” said one.
“Chock full of fun, ain’t he?”
“Same old fellow he used to be.”
“Best thing that’s been got off here in a year.”
“Gentlemen,” said the solemn man, “there seems to be a conspiracy
among you to guy me. I like a joke myself, but I like to know what I’m
being hurrahed about.”
Three men lay down in the sawdust and screamed, and the rest fell in
chairs and leaned against the bar in paroxysms of laughter. Then three
or four of them almost fought for the honor of setting them up again.
The solemn man was suspicious and watchful, but he drank every time
anyone proposed to treat. Whenever he made a remark, the whole gang
would yell with laughter until the tears ran from their eyes.
“Well,” said the solemn man, after about twenty rounds had been paid
for by the others, “the best of friends must part. I’ve got to get to
my downy couch.”
“Good!” yelled the fat man. “Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha! ‘Downy couch’ is good.
Best thing I ever heard. You are as good, by Gad, as you ever were.
Never heard such impromptu wit. Texas is proud of you, old boy.”
“Good night, gentlemen,” said the solemn man. “I’ve got to get up
early in the morning and go to work.”
“Hear that!” shouted the fat man. “Says he’s got to work.
Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!”
The whole crowd gave a parting roar of laughter as the solemn man
walked to the door. He stopped for a moment and said: “Had a very
(hic) pleasant evening (hic) gents. Hope’ll shee you (hic) ’n mornin’.
Here’sh my card. Goo’ night.”
The fat man seized the card and shook the solemn man’s hand. When he
had gone, he glanced at the card, and his face took on a serious
frown.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you all know who our friend is that we have been
entertaining, don’t you?”
“Of course; you said it was Alex Sweet, the ‘Texas Siftings’ man.”
“So I understood,” said the fat man. “The hotel clerk said it was Alex
Sweet.”
He handed them the card and skipped out the side door. The card read:
L. X. Wheat
Representing Kansas City
Smith and Jones Mo.
Wholesale Undertakers’ Supplies
The crowd was out $32 on treats, and they armed themselves and are
laying for the fat man. When a stranger attempts to be funny in San
Antonio now, he has to produce proper credentials in writing before he
can raise a smile.