Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

Futility The Wounded Veteran Her Ruse Why Conductors Are Morose "Only to Lie--" The Pewee The Sunday Excursionist Decoration Day Charge of the White Brigade An Inspiration Coming to Him His Pension The Winner Hungry Henry's Ruse A Proof of Love One Consolation An Unsuccessful Experiment Superlatives By Easy Stages Even Worse The Shock The Cynic Speaking of Big Winds Unknown Title An Original Idea Calculations A Valedictory Solemn Thoughts Explaining It Her Failing A Disagreement An E for a Knee The Unconquerable An Expensive Veracity Grounds for Uneasiness It Covers Errors Recognition His Doubt A Cheering Thought What It Was Vanity Identified The Apple How It Started Red Conlin's Eloquence Why He Hesitated Turkish Questions Somebody Lied Marvelous The Confession of a Murderer "Get Off the Earth" The Stranger's Appeal The Good Boy The Colonel's Romance A Narrow Escape A Years Supply Eugene Field Slightly Mixed Knew What Was Needed Some Ancient News Notes A Sure Method Endnotes

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.

Yours very truly,
(Signed) W. P. Hobby.

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.

Yours truly,

THE HOUSTON POST

(Signed) A. E. Clarkson,

_Business Manager_.

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.

O. HENRY ON THE HOUSTON _POST_

_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.

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 15 1/2 by 9 1/2 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.

The Distraction of Grief

The other day a Houston man died and left a young and charming widow to mourn his loss. Just before the funeral, the pastor came around to speak what words of comfort he could, and learn her wishes regarding the obsequies. He found her dressed in a becoming mourning costume, sitting with her chin in her hand, gazing with far-off eyes in an unfathomable sea of retrospection.

The pastor approached her gently, and said: "Pardon me for intruding upon your grief, but I wish to know whether you prefer to have a funeral sermon preached, or simply to have the service read."

The heartbroken widow scarcely divined his meaning, so deeply was she plunged in her sorrowful thoughts, but she caught some of his words, and answered brokenly:

"Oh, red, of course. Red harmonizes so well with black."

A Sporting Interest

It is a busy scene in the rear of one of Houston's greatest manufacturing establishments. A number of workmen are busy raising some heavy object by means of blocks and tackles. Somehow, a rope is worn in two by friction, and a derrick falls. There is a hurried scrambling out of the way, a loud jarring crash, a cloud of dust, and a man stretched out dead beneath the heavy timbers.

The others gather round and with herculean efforts drag the beams from across his mangled form. There is a hoarse murmur of pity from rough but kindly breasts, and the question runs around the group, "Who is to tell her?"

In a neat little cottage near the railroad, within their sight as they stand, a bright-eyed, brownhaired young woman is singing at her work, not knowing that death has snatched away her husband in the twinkling of an eye.

Singing happily at her work, while the hand that she had chosen to protect and comfort her through life lies stilled and fast turning to the coldness of the grave!

These rough men shrink like children from telling her. They dread to bear the news that will change her smiles to awful sorrow and lamentation.

"You go, Mike," three or four of them say at once. "'Tis more lamin' ye have than any av us, whatever, and ye'll be afther brakin' the news to her as aisy as ye can. Be off wid ye now, and shpake gently to Tim's poor lassie while we thry to get the corpse in shape."

Mike is a pleasant-faced man, young and stalwart, and with a last look at his unfortunate comrade he goes slowly down the street toward the cottage where the fair young wife--alas, now a widow--lives.

When he arrives, he does not hesitate. He is tenderhearted, but strong. He lifts the gate latch and walks firmly to the door. There is something in his face, before he speaks, that tells her the truth.

"What was it?" she asks, "spontaneous combustion or snakes?"

"Derrick fell," says Mike.

"Then I've lost my bet," she says. "I thought sure it would be whisky."

Life, messieurs, is full of disappointments.

Had a Use for It

A strong scent of onions and the kind of whisky advertised "for mechanical purposes" came through the keyhole, closely followed by an individual bearing a bulky manuscript under his arm about the size of a roll of wall paper.

The individual was of the description referred to by our English cousins as "one of the lower classes," and by Populist papers as "the bone and sinew of the country," and the scene of his invasion was the sanctum of a great Texas weekly newspaper.

The editor sat at his desk with his hands clenched in his scanty hair, gazing despairingly at a typewritten letter from the house where he bought his paper supply.

The individual drew a chair close to the editor and laid the heavy manuscript upon the desk, which creaked beneath its weight.

"I've worked nineteen hours upon it," he said, "but it's done at last."

"What is it?" asked the editor, "a lawn mower?"

"It is an answer, sir, to the President's message: a refutation of each and every one of his damnable doctrines, a complete and scathing review of every assertion and every false insidious theory that he has advanced."

"About how many--er--how many pounds do you think it contains?" said the editor thoughtfully.

"Five hundred and twenty-seven pages, sir, and--"

"Written in pencil on one side of the paper?" asked the editor, with a strange light shining in his eye.

"Yes, and it treats of--"

"You can leave it," said the editor, rising from his chair. "I have no doubt I can use it to advantage."

The individual, with a strong effort, collected his breath and departed, feeling that a fatal blow had been struck at those in high places.

Ten minutes later six india-rubber erasers had been purchased, and the entire office force were at work upon the manuscript.

The great weekly came out on time, but the editor gazed pensively at his last month's unreceipted paper bill and said:

"So far, so good; but I wonder what we will print on next week!"

The Old Landmark

He was old and feeble and his sands of life were nearly run out. He walked with faltering steps along one of the most fashionable avenues in the city of Houston. He had left the city twenty years ago, when it was little more than a thriving village, and now, weary of wandering through the world and filled with an unutterable longing to rest his eyes once more upon the scenes of his youth, he had come back to find a bustling modern city covering the site of his former home. He sought in vain for some familiar object, some old time sight that would recall memories of bygone days. All had changed. On the site where his father's cottage had stood, a stately mansion reared its walls; the vacant lot where he had played when a boy, was covered with modern buildings. Magnificent lawns stretched on either hand, running back to palatial dwellings. Not one of the sights of his boyhood days was left.

Suddenly, with a glad cry, he rushed forward with renewed vigor. He saw before him, untouched by the hand of man and unchanged by time, an old familiar object around which he had played when a child. He reached out his arms and ran toward it with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

Later on they found him asleep, with a peaceful smile on his face, lying on the old garbage pile in the middle of the street, the sole relic of his boyhood's recollections.

A Personal Insult

Young lady in Houston became engaged last summer to one of the famous shortstops of the Texas baseball league.

Last week he broke the engagement, and this is the reason why.

He had a birthday last Tuesday and she sent him a beautiful bound and illustrated edition of Coleridge's famous poem, "The Ancient Mariner."

The hero of the diamond opened the book with a puzzled look.

"What's dis bloomin' stuff about, anyways?" he said, and read:

It is the Ancient Mariner

And he stoppeth one of three--

The famous shortstop threw the book out the window, stuck out his chin and said:

"No Texas sis can gimme de umpire face like dat. I swipes nine daisy cutters outer ten dat comes in my garden, I do."

Toddlekins

Toddlekins climbed up the long, long stair;
Chubby and fat and round was he;
With rosy cheeks and curling hair,
Jolly and fair and gay was he.
Toddlekins knocked on the office door;
Within at a desk a stern man sat;
Wrote with a pen while a frown he wore,
When he heard on the door a rat-tat-tat.
Toddlekins cried, "Oh please let me in!
I've come to see you, the door is fast!"
Oh, voice so soft, it will surely win
The heart of the stern, cold man at last!
But he heeded not the pleading cry
Of Toddlekins out on the lonely stair;
And Toddlekins left with a sorrowful sigh,
Toddlekins round, and chubby and fair,
Oh, man so stem, when you stand and plead
At the door of your Father's house on high;
What if he, merciless, pay no heed;
Pitiless, turns from your helpless cry!
But the man wrote on with a stony stare;
He was an editor, poor and ill;
And Toddlekins, chubby and round and fair,
Was a butcher that brought a big meat bill.

Reconciliation A One-Act Drama

Dramatis Personae A Houston married couple.

Scene--Her boudoir.

He And now, Viola, since we understand each other, let us never fall out again. Let us forget the bitter words that we have spoken one to another, and resolve to dwell always in love and affection. [Places his arm around her waist.]

She Oh, Charles, you don't know how happy you make me! Of course we will never quarrel again. Life is too short to waste in petty bickerings and strife. Let us keep in the primrose path of love, and never stray from it any more. Oh, what bliss to think you love me and nothing can ever come between us! Just like the old days when we used to meet by the lilac hedge, isn't it? [Lays her head on his shoulder.]

He Yes, and when I used to pull blossoms and twine them in your hair and call you Queen Titania.

She Oh, that was nice. I remember. Queen Titania? Oh, yes, she was one of Shakespeare's characters, who fell in love with a man with a donkey's head.

He H'm!

She Now don't. I didn't mean you. Oh, Charles, listen to the Christmas chimes! What a merry day it will be for us. Are you sure you love me as well as you used to?

He More. _Smack._

She Does 'em fink me sweet?

He

_Smack. Smack!_

She Wuz 'em's toodleums?

He Awful heap. Who do you wuv?

She My ownest own old boy.

Both _Smack!_

He Listen, the bells are chiming again. We should be doubly happy, love, for we have passed through stormy seas of doubt and anger. But now, a light is breaking, and the rosy dawn of love has returned.

She And should abide with us forever. Oh, Charles, let us never again by word or look cause pain to each other.

He Never again. And you will not scold any more?

She No, dearest. You know I never have unless you gave me cause.

He Sometimes you have become angry and said hard things without any reason.

She Maybe you think so, but I don't. [Lifts her head from his shoulder.]

He I know what I'm talking about. [Takes his arm from her waist.]

She You come home cross because you haven't got sense enough to conduct your business properly, and take your spite out on me.

He You make me tired. You get on your ear because you are naturally one of the cain-raising, blab-mouthed kind and can't help it.

She You old crosspatch of a liar from Liarsville, don't you talk to me that way or I'll scratch your eyes out.

He You blamed wildcat. I wish I had been struck by lightning before I ever met you.

She [Seizing the broom.] Biff! biff! biff.

He [After reaching the sidewalk] I wonder if Colonel Ingersoll is right when he says suicide is no sin!

[Curtain]

Buying a Piano

A Houston man decided a few days ago to buy his wife a piano for a Christmas present. Now, there is more competition, rivalry, and push among piano agents than any other class of men. The insurance and fruit tree businesses are mild and retiring in comparison with the piano industry. The Houston man, who is a prominent lawyer, knew this, and he was careful not to tell too many people of his intentions, for fear the agents would annoy him. He inquired in a music store only once, regarding prices, etc., and intended after a week or so to make his selection.

When he left the store he went around by the post-office before going back to work.

When he reached his office he found three agents perched on his desk and in his chair waiting for him.

One of them got his mouth open first, and said: "Hear you want to buy a piano, sir. For sweetness, durability, finish, tone, workmanship, style, and quality the Steingay is--"

"Nixy," said another agent, pushing in between them and seizing the lawyer's collar. "You get a Chitterling. Only piano in the world. For sweetness, durability, finish, tone, workmanship--"

"Excuse me," said the third agent. "I can't stand by and see a man swindled. The Chronic and Bark piano, for sweetness, durability, finish--"

"Get out, every one of you," shouted the lawyer. "When I want a piano I'll buy the one I please. Get out of the room!"

The agents left, and the lawyer went to work on a brief. During the afternoon, five of his personal friends called to recommend different makes of pianos, and the lawyer began to get snappish.

He went out and got a drink and the bartender said: "Say, gent, me brudder works in a piano factory and he gimme de tip dat you'se wants to buy one of de tum-tums. Me brudder says dat for sweetness, durability, finish--"

"Devil take your brother," said the lawyer.

He got on the street car to go home and four agents were already aboard waiting for him. He dodged back before they saw him and stood on the platform. Presently the brakeman leaned over and whispered in his ear:

"Frien', the Epperson piano what me uncle handles in East Texas, fur sweetness, durability--"

"Stop the car," said the lawyer. He got off and skulked in a dark doorway until the four agents, who had also got off the car, rushed past, and then he picked up a big stone from the gutter and put it in his pocket. He went around a back way to his home and slipped up to the gate feeling pretty safe.

The minister of his church had been calling at the house, and came out the gate just as the lawyer reached it. The lawyer was the proud father of a brand-new, two-weeks-old baby, and the minister had just been admiring it, and wanted to congratulate him.

"My dear brother," said the minister. "Your house will soon be filled with joy and music. I think it will be a great addition to your life. Now, there is nothing in the world that for sweetness--"

"Confound you, you're drumming for a piano, too, are you?" yelled the lawyer, drawing the stone from his pocket. He fired away and knocked the minister's tall hat across the street, and kicked him in the shin. The minister believed in the church militant, and he gave the lawyer a one-two on the nose, and they clinched and rolled off the sidewalk on a pile of loose bricks. The neighbors heard the row and came out with shotguns and lanterns, and finally an understanding was arrived at.

The lawyer was considerably battered up, and the family doctor was sent for to patch him. As the doctor bent over him with sticking-plaster and a bottle of arnica, he said:

"You'll be out in a day or two, and then I want you to come around and buy a piano from my brother. The one he is agent for is acknowledged to be the best one for sweetness, durability, style, quality, and action in the world."

Too Late

Young Lieutenant Baldwin burst excitedly into his general's room and cried hoarsely: "For God's sake, General! Up! Up! and come. Spotted Lightning has carried off your daughter, Inez!"

General Splasher sprang to his feet in dismay. "What," he cried, "not Spotted Lightning, the chief of the Kiomas, the most peaceful tribe in the reservation?"

"The same."

"Good heavens! You know what this tribe is when aroused?"

The lieutenant cast a swift look of intelligence at his commander.

"They are the most revengeful, murderous, and vindictive Indians in the West when on the warpath, but for months they have been the most peaceable," he answered.

"Come," said the general, "we have not a moment to lose. What has been done?"

"There are fifty cavalrymen ready to start, with Bowie Knife Bill, the famous scout, to track them."

Ten minutes later the general and the lieutenant, with Bowie Knife Bill at their side, set out at a swinging gallop at the head of the cavalry column.

Bowie Knife Bill, with the trained instincts of a border sleuthhound, followed the trail of Spotted Lightning's horse with unerring swiftness.

"Pray God we may not be too late," said the general as he spurred his panting steed--"and Spotted Lightning, too, of all the chiefs! He has always seemed to be our friend."

"On, on," cried Lieutenant Baldwin, "there may yet be time."

Mile after mile the pursuers covered, pausing not for food or water, until nearly sunset.

Bowie Knife Bill pointed to a thin column of smoke in the distance and said:

"Thar's the varmints' camp."

The hearts of all the men bounded with excitement as they neared the spot.

"Are we in time?" was the silent question in the mind of each.

They dashed into an open space of prairie and drew rein near Spotted Lightning's tent. The flap was closed. The troopers swung themselves from their horses.

"If it is as I fear," muttered the general hoarsely to the lieutenant, "it means war with the Kioma nation. Oh, why did he not take some other instead of my daughter?"

At that instance the door of the tent opened and Inez Splasher, the general's daughter, a maiden of about thirty-seven summers, emerged, bearing in her hand the gory scalp of Spotted Lightning.

"Too late!" cried the general as he fell senseless from his horse.

"I knew it," said Bowie Knife Bill, folding his arms with a silent smile, "but what surprises me is how he ever got this far alive."

Nothing to Say

"You can tell your paper," the great man said,
"I refused an interview.
I have nothing to say on the question, sir,
Nothing to say to you."

And then he talked till the sun went down
And the chickens went to roost:
And he seized the coat of the poor _Post_ man
And never his hold he loosed.

And the sun went down and the moon came up,
And he talked till the dawn of day;
Though he said, "On this subject mentioned by you,
I have nothing whatever to say."

And down the reporter dropped to sleep,
And flat on the floor he lay;
And the last he heard was the great man's words:
"I have nothing at all to say."

"Goin Home Fur Christmas"

Pa fussed at ma, and said By gun!
There wa'n't no use a talkin';
Times wuz too hard to travel round,
In any way 'cept walkin',
And said 'twas nonsense anyhow,
Folks didn't want no visitors;
And said ma needn't talk no more,
'Bout goin' home for Christmas.

"I'd like to see 'em all," says ma,
All pale and almost cryin';
A gazin' out the window, where
The snow wuz fairly flyin';
"I've been a thinkin', oh so long,
'Bout mother and my sisters;
And savin' every cent I could
To'ards goin' home for Christmas."
But pa he frowned and then ma sighed.
Just once, and kinder' smilin',
Says: "Well, les' go an' have some tea,
The water's all a-bilin'."

To-day pa called us children in
To ma's room--he wuz cryin'--
And ma wuz--oh so white and still,
And cold where she wuz lyin'.
She kinder roused up when we come,
And turned her face and kissed us,
And says: "Good-by--oh good-by, dears!
I'm goin' home fur Christmas!"

Just a Little Damp

As the steamer reached Aransas Pass a Galveston man fell overboard. A life buoy was thrown him, but he thrust it aside contemptuously. A boat was hurriedly lowered, and reached him just as he came to the surface for the second time. Helping hands were stretched forth to rescue him, but he spurned their aid. He spat out about a pint of sea water and shouted:

"Go away and leave me alone. I'm walking on the bottom. You'll run your boat aground in a minute. I'll wade out when I get ready and go up to a barber shop and get dusted off. The ground's damp a little, but I ain't afraid of catching cold."

He went under for the last time, and the boat pulled back for the ship. The Galveston man had exhibited to the last his scorn and contempt for any other port that claimed deep water.

Her Mysterious Charm

In the conservatory of a palatial Houston home Roland Pendergast stood with folded arms and an inscrutable smile upon his face, gazing down upon the upturned features of Gabrielle Smithers.

"Why is it," he said, "that I am attracted by you? You are not beautiful, you lack aplomb, grace, and savoir faire. You are cold, unsympathetic and bowlegged.

"I have striven to analyze the power you have over me, but in vain. Some esoteric chain of mental telepathy binds us two together, but what is its nature? I dislike being in love with one who has neither chic, naivete nor front teeth, but fate has willed it so. You personally repel me, but I can not tear you from my heart. You are in my thoughts by day and nightmares by night.

"Your form reminds me of a hatrack, but when I press you to my heart I feel strange thrills of joy. I can no more tell you why I love you than I can tell why a barber can rub a man's head fifteen minutes without touching the spot that itches. Speak, Gabrielle, and tell me what is this spell you have woven around me!"

"I will tell you," said Gabrielle with a soft smile. "I have fascinated many men in the same way. When I help you on with your overcoat I never reach under and try to pull your other coat down from the top of your collar."

Convinced

Houston is the dwelling place of a certain young lady who is exceptionally blessed with the gifts of the goddess of fortune. She is very fair to look upon, bright, witty, and possesses that gracious charm so difficult to describe, but so potent to please, that is commonly called personal magnetism. Although cast in such a lonely world, and endowed with so many graces of mind and matter, she is no idle butterfly of fashion, and the adulation she receives from a numerous circle of admirers has not turned her head.

She has a close friend, a young lady of plain exterior, but a sensible and practical mind, whom she habitually consults as a wise counselor and advisor concerning the intricate problems of life.

One day she said to Marian--the wise friend: "How I wish there was some way to find out who among these flattering suitors of mine is sincere and genuine in the compliments that are paid me. Men are such deceivers, and they all give me such unstinted praise, and make such pretty speeches to me, that I do not know who among them, if any, are true and sincere in their regard."

"I will tell you a way," said Marian. "The next evening when there are a number of them calling upon you, recite a dramatic poem, and then tell me how each one expresses his opinion of your effort."

The young lady was much impressed with the idea, and on the following Friday evening when some half-dozen young men were in the parlor paying her attentions, she volunteered to recite. She has not the least dramatic talent, but she stood up and went through with a long poem, with many gestures and much rolling of eyes and pressing of her hands to her heart. She did it very badly, and without the least regard for the rules of elocution or expression.

Later on, her friend Marian asked her how her effort was received.

"Oh," she said, "they all crowded around me, and appeared to be filled with the utmost delight. Tom, and Henry, and Jim, and Charlie were in raptures. They said that Mary Anderson could not have equaled it. They said they had never heard anything spoken with such dramatic effect and feeling."

"Everyone praised you?" asked Marian.

"All but one. Mr. Judson sat back in his chair and never applauded at all. He told me after I had finished that he was afraid I had very little dramatic talent at all."

"Now," said Marian. "You know who is sincere and genuine?"

"Yes," said the beautiful girl, with eyes shining with enthusiasm. "The test was a complete success. I detest that odious Judson, and I'm going to begin studying for the stage right away."

His Dilemma

An old man with long white chin whiskers and a derby hat two sizes small, dropped into a Main Street drug store yesterday and beckoned a clerk over into a corner. He was about sixty-five years old, but he wore a bright red necktie, and was trying to smoke a very bad and strong cigar in as offhand a style as possible.

"Young man," he said, "you lemme ask you a few questions, and I'll send you a big watermelon up from the farm next summer. I came to Houston to see this here carnival, and do some tradin'. Right now, before I go any further, have you got any hair dye?"

"Plenty of it."

"Any of this real black shiny dye that looks blue in the sunshine?"

"Yes."

"All right then, now I'll proceed. Do you know anything about this here Monroe docterin'?"

"Well, yes, something."

"And widders; do you feel able to prognosticate a few lines about widders?"

"I can't tell what you are driving at," said the clerk. "What is it you want to know?"

"I'm gettin' to the pint. Now there's hair dye, Monroe docterin', and widders. Got them all down in your mind?"

"Yes, but--"

"Jest hold on, now, and I'll explain. There's the unhappiest fat and sassy widder moved into the adjinin' farm to me, you ever see, and if I knows the female heart she has cast eyes of longin' upon yours truly. Now if I dyes these here white whiskers I ketches her. By blackin' said whiskers and insertin' say four fingers of rye where it properly belongs, I kicks up my heels and I waltzes up and salutes the widder like a calf of forty."

"Well," said the clerk, "our hair dye is--"