Her Letter, His Answer & Her Last Letter

Bret Harte

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 ditchesAnd tunnels of Poverty Flat?"Well, yes, – if you saw us out drivingEach day in the Park, four-in-hand,If you saw poor dear mamma contrivingTo look supernaturally grand, —If you saw papa's picture, as takenBy Brady, and tinted at that, —You'd never suspect he sold baconAnd flour at Poverty Flat.And yet, just this moment, when sittingIn the glare of the grand chandelier, —In the bustle and glitter befittingThe "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 musterOf flags festooned over the wall;Of the candles that shed their soft lustreAnd 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 middleWith the man that shot Sandy McGee;Of the moon that was quietly sleepingOn the hill, when the time came to go;Of the few baby peaks that were peepingFrom 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 heiressTo "the best-paying lead in the State."Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funnyTo think, as I stood in the glareOf 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 gravelIn 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 decentI should write what he runs off his tongue.First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letterTo 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 usesAt times it were vain to relate).And he says "that the mountains are fairerFor once being held in your thought;"That each rock "holds a wealth that is rarerThan 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 verySame 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.)He hopes you are wearing no willows,But are happy and gay all the while;That he knows – (which this dodging of pillowsImparts 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."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.)He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss,Were it not that I scorn to denyThat 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.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.P.S.– Which this same interferingInto other folks' way I despise;Yet if it so be I was hearingThat it's just empty pockets as liesBetween you and Joseph, it follersThat, having no family claims,Here's my pile, which it's six hundred dollarsAs is yours, with respects,Truthful James.

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 fairestFor once being held in my thought."Now, really I call that the barestOf – 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 ditchesOr temples of Poverty Flat!From Paris we went for the seasonTo 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 summonI could go back with him to the Flat —Perhaps I was thinking of some oneWho of me – well – was not thinking that!Of course you will say that I "neverReplied 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 flaringWith diamonds, and lost in a hat!And she asked me "How Joseph was faringIn his love-suit on Poverty Flat!"She thought it would shame me! I met herWith a look, Joe, that made her eyes drop;And I said that your "love-suit fared betterThan any suit out of their shop!"And I didn't blush then– as I'm doingTo 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 fancyI'm labeled to each passer-by.Ah! gone is the old necromancy,For nothing seems right to my eye.On that hill there are stores that I knew not;There's a street – where I once lost my way;And the copse where you once tied my shoe-knotIs shamelessly open as day!And that bank by the spring – I once drank there,And you called the place Eden, you know;Now, I'm banished like Eve – though the bank thereIs belonging to "Adams and Co."There's the rustle of silk on the sidewalk;Just now there passed by a tall hat;But there's gloom in this "boom" and this wild talkOf the "future" of Poverty Flat.There's a decorous chill in the air, Joe,Where once we were simple and free;And I hear they've been making a mayor, Joe,Of the man who shot Sandy McGee.But there's still the "lap, lap" of the river;There's the song of the pines, deep and low.(How my longing for them made me quiverIn the park that they call Fontainebleau!)There's the snow-peak that looked on our dances,And blushed when the morning said, "Go!"There's a lot that remains which one fancies —But somehow there's never a Joe!Perhaps, on the whole, it is better,For you might have been changed like the rest;Though it's strange that I'm trusting this letterTo papa, just to have it addressed.He thinks he may find you, and reallySeems kinder now I'm all alone.You might have been here, Joe, if merelyTo look what I'm willing to own.Well, well! that's all past; so good-night, Joe;Good-night to the river and Flat;Good-night to what's wrong and what's right, Joe;Good-night to the past, and all that —To Harrison's barn, and its dancers;To the moon, and the white peak of snow;And good-night to the cañon that answersMy "Joe!" with its echo of "No!"P.S.– I've just got your note. You deceiver!How dared you – how could you? Oh, Joe!To think I've been kept a believerIn things that were six months ago!And it's you've built this house, and the bank, too,And the mills, and the stores, and all that!And for everything changed I must thank you,Who have "struck it" on Poverty Flat!How dared you get rich – you great stupid! —Like papa, and some men that I know,Instead of just trusting to CupidAnd to me for your money? Ah, Joe!Just to think you sent never a word, dear,Till you wrote to papa for consent!Now I know why they had me transferred here,And "the health of papa" – what that meant!Now I know why they call this "The Lily;"Why the man who shot Sandy McGeeYou made mayor! 'Twas because – oh, you silly! —He once "went down the middle" with me!I've been fooled to the top of my bent here,So come, and ask pardon – you knowThat you've still got to get my consent, dear!And just think what that echo said – Joe!