Delphi Complete Works of O. Henry
Page 278
The guards bring in men who are sick at all hours of the night to the hospital which is detached some one hundred yards from the main buildings. I have gotten quite expert at practicing medicine. It’s a melancholy place, however — misery and death and all kinds of suffering around one all the time. We sometimes have a death every night for a week or so. Yery little time is wasted on such an occasion. One of the nurses will come from a ward and say— “Weil, So and So has croaked.” Ten minutes later they tramp out with So and So on a stretcher and take him to the dead house. If he has no friends to claim him — which is generally the case — the next day the doctors have a dissecting bee and that ends it. Suicides are as common as picnics here. Every few nights the doctor and I have to strike out at a trot to see some unfortunate who has tried to get rid of his troubles. They cut their throats and hang themselves and stop up their cells and turn the gas on and try all kinds of ways. Most of them plan it well enough to succeed. Night before last a professional pugilist went crazy in his cell and the doctor and I, of course, were sent for. The man was in good training and it took eight of us to tie him. Seven held him down while the doctor climbed on top and got his hypodermic syringe into him. These little things are our only amusements. I often get as blue as any one can get and I feel as thoroughly miserable as it is possible to feel, but I consider that my future efforts belong to others and I have no right to give way to my own troubles and feelings.
Hello, Margaret:
Don’t you remember me? I’m a Brownie, and my name is Aldibirontiphostiphornikophokos. If you see a star shoot and say my name seventeen times before it goes out, you will find a diamond ring in the track of the first blue cow’s foot you see go down the road in a snowstorm while the red roses are blooming on the tomato vines. Try it some time. I know all about Anna and Arthur Dudley, but they don’t see me. I was riding by on a squirrel the other day and saw you and Arthur Dudley give some fruit to some trainmen. Anna wouldn’t come out. Well good-bye, I’ve got to take a ride on a grasshopper. I’ll just sign my first letter— “A”.
July 8, 1898.
My Dear Margaret :
You don’t know how glad I was to get your nice little letter to-day. I am so sorry I couldn’t come to tell you good-bye when I left Austin. You know I would have done so if I could have.
Well, I think it’s a shame some men folks have to go away from home to work and stay away so long — don’t you? But I tell you what’s a fact. When I come home next time I’m going to stay there. You bet your boots I’m getting tired of staying away so long.
I’m so glad you and Munny are going to Nashville. I know you’ll have a fine ride on the cars and a good time when you get to Uncle Bud’s. Now you must have just the finest time you can with Anna and the boys and tumble around in the woods and go fishing and have lots of fun. Now, Margaret, don’t you worry any about me, for I’m well and fat as a pig and I’ll have to be away from home a while yet and while I’m away you can just run up to Nashville and see the folks there.
And not long after you come back home I’ll be ready to come and I won’t ever have to leave again.
So you be just as happy as you can, and it won’t be long till we’ll be reading Unclc Remus again of nights.
I’ll see if I can find another one of Uncle Remus’s books when I come back. You didn’t tell me in your letter about your going to Nashville. When you get there you must write me a long letter and tell me what you saw on the cars and how you like Uncle Bud’s stock farm.
When you get there I’ll write you a letter every week, for you will be much nearer to the town I am in than Austin is.
I do hope you will have a nice visit and a good time. Look out pretty soon for another letter from me.
I think about you every day and wonder what you are doing. Well, I will see you again before very long.
Your loving Papa.
August 16, 1898.
My Dear Margaret :
I got your letter yesterday, and was mighty glad to hear from you. I think you must have forgotten where you were when you wrote it, for you wrote “Austin, Texas” at the top of it. Did you forget you had gone to Tennessee?
The reason why I have not written you a letter in so long is that I didn’t know the name of the postoffice where you and Munny were going until I got her letter and yours yesterday. Now that I know how to write I will write you a letter every Sunday and you will know just when you are going to get one every week. Are you having a nice time at Aunt Lilly’s?
Munny tells me you are fat and sassy and I am glad to hear it. You always said you wanted to be on a farm. You must write and tell me next time what kind of times you have and what you do to have fun.
I’d have liked to see the two fish you caught. Guess they were most as long as your little finger, weren’t they? You must make Munny keep you up there till the hot weather is over before you go back to Austin. I want you to have as good times as you can, and get well and strong and big but don’t get as big as Munny because I’m afraid you’d lick me when I come home.
Did you find Dudley and Arthur much bigger than they were when they were in Austin? I guess Anna is almost grown now — or thinks she is — which amounts to about the same thing.
April 5, 1899.
Dear Mrs. R.:
One thing I am sorry for is that we are about to lose Dr. Reinert, our night physician. He has been my best friend and is a thoroughly good man in every way. He will resign his place in about a month to accept a better position as Police Surgeon. You can still address in his care until May 1st, and in the meantime I will make other arrangements. I believe, though, that I will be able to hold my own after he leaves, as I have the confidence and good will of all the officers. Still we never can tell here, as everything is run on political and financial lines. Of course, all the easy positions are greatly in demand, and every variety of wire-pulling and scheming is used to secure them. As much as a thousand dollars have been offered by men here for such places as the one I hold, and as I hold mine simply on my own merits I have to be on the lookout all the time against undermining.
I have abundant leisure time at night and I have been putting- it to best advantage studying and accumulating manuscript to use later.
February 14, 1900.
Dear Margaret :
It has been quite a long time since I heard from you. I got a letter from you in the last century, and a letter once every hundred years is not very often. I have been waiting from day to day, putting off writing to you, as I have been expecting to have something to send you, but it hasn’t come yet, and I thought I would write anyhow.
I am pretty certain I will have it in tliree or four days, and then I will write to you again and send it to you.
I hope your watch runs all right. When you write again be sure and look at it and tell me what time it is, so I won’t have to get up and look at the clock.
With much love, Papa.
May 17, 1900.
Dear Margaret :
It has been so long since I heard from you that I’m getting real anxious to know what is the matter. Whenever you don’t answer my letters I am afraid you are sick, so please write right away when you get this. Tell me something about Pittsburg and what you have seen of it. Have they any nice parks where you can go or is it all made of houses and bricks? I send you twenty nickels to spend for anything you want.
Now, if you will write me a nice letter real soon I will promise to answer it the same day and put another dollar in it. I am very well and so anxious to be with you again, which I hope won’t be very long now.
With much love, as ever Papa.
October 1, 1900.
Dear Margaret:
I got your very nice, long letter a good many days ago. It didn’t come straight to me, but went to a wrong address first. I was very glad indeed to hear from you, and very, very sorry to learn of your getting your finger so badly hurt. I don’t think you were to blame at all, as you couldn’t know just how that villainous
old “lioss” was going to bite. I do hope that it will heal up nicely and leave your finger strong. I am learning to play the mandolin, and we must get you a guitar, and we will learn a lot of duets together when I come home, which will certainly not be later than next summer, and maybe earlier. I suppose you have started to school again some time ago. I hope you like to go, and don’t have to study too hard. When oue grows up, a thing they never regret is that they went to school long enough to learn all they could. It makes everything easier for them, and if they like books and study they can always content and amuse themselves that way even if other people are cross and tiresome, and the world doesn’t go to suit them.
You mustn’t think that I’ve forgotten somebody’s birthday. I couldn’t find just the thing I wanted to send, but I know where it can be had, and it will reach you in a few days. So, when it comes you’ll know it is for a birthday remembrance.
I think you write the prettiest hand of any little girl (or big one, either) I ever knew. The letters you make are as even and regular as printed ones. The next time you write, tell me how far you have to go to school and whether you go alone or not.
I am busy all the time writing for the papers and magazines all over the country, so I don’t have a chancc to come home, but I’m going to try to come this winter. If I don’t I will by summer sure, and then you’ll have somebody to boss and make trot around with you.
Write me a letter whenever you have some time to spare, for I am always glad and anxious to hear from you. Be careful when you are on the streets not to feed shucks to strange dogs, or pat snakes on the head or shake hands with cats you haven’t been introduced to, or stroke the noses of electric car horses.
Hoping you are well and your finger is getting all right, I am, with much love, as ever, Papa.
November 5, 1900.
Dear Mrs. R.:
I send you an Outlook by this mail with a little story of mine in it. I am much better situated now for work and am going to put in lots of time in writing this winter.
About two weeks ago I was given what I consider the best position conneeted with this plaee. I am now m the steward s office keeping books, and am very comfortably situated. The office is entirely ontsidc and separate from the rest of the institution. It is on the same street, but quite a distance away I am bout as near free as possible. I don’t have to go near the other buildings except sometimes when I have business with some of the departments inside. I sleep outside at the office -d am absolutely without supervision of any kind. I go in and out as I please. At night I take walks on the streets or go down to the t and walk along the paths there. The steward’s office is a two-story building containing general stores and provisions There arc two handsomely furnished offiee rooms with up-to-date fixtures — natural gas, electric lights, ‘phones, etc have a big fine desk with worlds of stationery and everything I need We have a fine cook out here and set a table as good as a good hotel steward and the storekeepervery agreeable gentlemen both of them — leave about four p.m. and I am my own boss till next morning. In fact, I have my duties and attend to, hem, and am much more independent than an employer won d be. I take my hat and go out on the street whenever I please. I have a good wire cot which I rig up in the office at night, and altogether no one could ask for anything better under the crcumstances.
DEAR MARGARET, Here are three more pictures, hut they are not very good Munny says you are learning very fast at school I’m sure you re te a very smart girl, and I guess I’d better study a lot more myself or you will know more than I will I was reading to day about a cat a lady had that was about the smartest cat I ever heard of. One day the cat was asleep and woke up. He didn’t see his mistress, so he ran to a bandbox where she kept the hat she wore when she went out, and knocked the top oft to ee ift was there. When he found it was there he contented and lay down and went to sleep again. Wasn’t that pretty bright for a eat? Do you think Nig would do anything that smart?
You must plant some seeds and have them growing so you can water them as soon as it gets warm enough. Well, I’ll write you another letter in a day or two. So good-bye till then.
Your loving Papa.
My Dear Margaret :
I ought to have answered your last letter sooner, but I haven’t had a chance. It’s getting mighty cool now. It won’t be long before persimmons are ripe in Tennessee. I don’t think you ever ate any persimmons, did you? I think persimmon pudden (not pudding) is better than cantaloupe or watermelon either. If you stay until they get ripe you must get somebody to make you one.
If it snows while you are there you must try some fried snowballs, too. They are mighty good with Jack Frost gravy.
You must see how big and fat you can get before you go back to Austin.
When I come home I want to find you big and strong enough to pull me all about town on a sled when we have a snow storm. Won’t that be nice? I just thought I’d write this little letter in a hurry so the postman would get it and when I’m in a hurry I never can think of anything to write about. You and Munny must have a good time, and keep a good lookout and don’t let tramps or yellowjackets catch you. I’ll try to write something better next time. Write soon.
Your loving Papa.
November 12.
My Dear Margaret :
Did you ever have a pain right in the middle of your back between your shoulders? Well, I did just then when I wrote your name, and I had to stop a while and grunt and twist around in my chair before I could write any more. Guess I must have caught cold. I haven’t had a letter from you In a long time. You must stir Munny up every week or two and make her send me your letter. I guess you’d rather ride the pony than write about him, wouldn’t you? But you know I’m always so glad to get a letter from you even if it’s only a teentsy weentsy one, so I’ll know you are well and what you are doing.
You don’t want to go to work and forget your old Pop just because you don’t see much of him just now, for he’ll come in mighty handy some day to read Uncle Remus to you again and make kites that a cyclone wouldn’t raise off the ground. So write soon.
With love as ever, Papa.
My Dear Margaret :
I ought to have answered your letter some time ago, but you know how lazy I am. I’m very glad to hear you are having a good time, and I wish I was with you to help you have fun. I read in the paper that it is colder in Austin than it has been in many years, and they’ve had lots of snow there too. Do you remember the big snow we had there once? I guess everybody can get snow this winter to fry. Why don’t you send me some fried snow in a letter? Do you like Tennessee as well as you did Texas? Tell me next time you write. Well, old Christmas is about to come round again. I wish I could come and light up the candles on the Christmas tree like we used to. I wouldn’t be surprised if you haven’t gotten bigger than I am by now, and when I come back and don’t want to read Uncle Remus of nights, you can get a stick and make me do it. I saw some new Uncle Remus books a few days ago and when I come back I’ll bring a new one, and you’ll say “thankydoo, thankydoo.” I’m getting mighty anxious to see you again, and for us to have some more fun like we used to. I guess it won’t be much longer now till I do, and I want to hear you tell all about what times you’ve had. I’ll bet you haven’t learned to button your own dress in the back yet, have you?
I hope you’ll have a jolly Christmas and lots of fun — Geeminy! don’t I wish I could eat Christmas dinner with you! Well, I hope it won’t be long till we all get home again. Write soon and don’t forget your loving, Papa.
My Dear Margaret :
Here it is summertime, and the bees are blooming and the flowers are singing and the birds making honey, and we haven’t been fishing yet. Well, there’s only one more month till July, and then we’ll go, and no mistake. I thought you would write and tell me about the high water around Pittsburg some time ago, and whether it came up to where you live, or not. And I haven’t heard a thing about Easter, and about the rabbits’ eggs — but I suppose you have learn
ed by this time that eggs grow on egg plants and are not laid by rabbits.
I would like very much to hear from you oftener; it has been more than a month since you wrote. Write soon and tell me how you are, and when school will be out, for we want plenty of holidays in July so we can have a good time. I am going to send you something nice the last of this week. What do you guess it will be?
Lovingly, Papa.
When O. Henry passed out of the prison walls of Columbus, he was a changed man. Something of the old buoyancy and waggishness had gone, never to return. He was never again to content himself with random squibs or jests contributed to newspapers or magazines. Creation had taken the place of mere scintillation. Observation was to be more and more fused with reflection. He was to work from the centre out rather than from the circumference in. The quest of “What’s around the corner” was to be as determined as before but it was to be tempered with a consciousness of the under-side of things. The hand that held the pen had known a solemnizing ministry and the eye that guided it had looked upon scenes that could not be expunged from memory.
The old life was to be shut out. He had written to none of his earlier friends while in prison and he hoped they would never know. The work that he had elected to do could be done in silence and separation and, so far as in him lay, he would start life over again once more. Explanations would be useless. He had his secret and he determined to keep it. He had been caught in the web of things but he had another to live for and hope was strong and confidence still stronger within him. If a sense of pervading romance had buoyed him before his days of testing, it had not deserted him when he passed within the shadows. It had been not only his pillar of cloud by day but his pillar of fire by night.