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, —

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