The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPostscripts

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPostscriptsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PostscriptsAuthor: O. HenryAuthor of introduction, etc.: Florence StrattonRelease date: April 2, 2020 [eBook #61734]Most recently updated: October 17, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Vince Rice*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POSTSCRIPTS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: PostscriptsAuthor: O. HenryAuthor of introduction, etc.: Florence StrattonRelease date: April 2, 2020 [eBook #61734]Most recently updated: October 17, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Vince Rice

Title: Postscripts

Author: O. HenryAuthor of introduction, etc.: Florence Stratton

Author: O. Henry

Author of introduction, etc.: Florence Stratton

Release date: April 2, 2020 [eBook #61734]Most recently updated: October 17, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Vince Rice

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POSTSCRIPTS ***

PostscriptsbyO. HenryWith an IntroductionbyFlorence StrattonPublishersHarper & BrothersNew York and LondonMCMXXIII

O. Henry

With an Introductionby

Florence Stratton

PublishersHarper & BrothersNew York and LondonMCMXXIII

Publishers

Harper & Brothers

New York and London

MCMXXIII

PostscriptsCopyright,1923, by Houston PostCopyright,1923, by Harper & BrothersPrinted in the U. S. A.

Postscripts

Printed in the U. S. A.

ToMr. Roy G. Watson

Mr. Roy G. Watson

Table of ContentsForewordThe Sensitive Colonel JayA Matter of LoyaltyTaking No ChancesThe Other Side of ItJournalistically ImpossibleThe Power of ReputationThe Distraction of GriefA Sporting InterestHad a Use for ItThe Old LandmarkA Personal InsultToddlekinsReconciliationBuying a PianoToo LateNothing to Say“Goin Home Fur Christmas”Just a Little DampHer Mysterious CharmConvincedHis DilemmaSomething for BabySome DayA Green HandA Righteous OutburstGetting at the FactsJust for a ChangeToo WiseA Fatal ErrorPromptThe Rake-OffThe TelegramAn Opportunity DeclinedCorrecting a Great InjusticeA Startling DemonstrationLeap Year AdviceAfter SupperHis Only OpportunityGetting AcquaintedAnswers to InquiriesCity PerilsHush MoneyRelievedNo Time to LoseA Villainous TrickA Forced MarchBook ReviewsA Conditional PardonInconsistencyBill NyeTo a PortraitA Guarded SecretA PastelJimBoard and AncestorsAn X-Ray FableA Universal FavoriteSpringThe Sporting Editor on CultureA Question of DirectionThe Old FarmWilling to CompromiseRidiculousGuessed Everything ElseThe Prisoner of ZemblaLucky Either WayThe “Bad Man”A Slight MistakeDelayedA Good Story SpoiledRevengeNo Help for ItRileys Luck“Not So Much a Tam Fool”A Guess-Proof Mystery StoryFutilityThe Wounded VeteranHer RuseWhy Conductors Are Morose“Only to Lie—”The PeweeThe Sunday ExcursionistDecoration DayCharge of the White BrigadeAn InspirationComing to HimHis PensionThe WinnerHungry Henry’s RuseA Proof of LoveOne ConsolationAn Unsuccessful ExperimentSuperlativesBy Easy StagesEven WorseThe ShockThe CynicSpeaking of Big WindsUnknown TitleAn Original IdeaCalculationsA ValedictorySolemn ThoughtsExplaining ItHer FailingA DisagreementAn E for a KneeThe UnconquerableAn Expensive VeracityGrounds for UneasinessIt Covers ErrorsRecognitionHis DoubtA Cheering ThoughtWhat It WasVanityIdentifiedThe AppleHow It StartedRed Conlin’s EloquenceWhy He HesitatedTurkish QuestionsSomebody LiedMarvelousThe Confession of a Murderer“Get Off the Earth”The Stranger’s AppealThe Good BoyThe Colonel’s RomanceA Narrow EscapeA Years SupplyEugene FieldSlightly MixedKnew What Was NeededSome Ancient News NotesA Sure MethodEndnotes

ForewordIt 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 HoustonPost. He thought O. Henry must have worked for thePostsome time in the latter part of 1896 to the fall of 1897.A visit to the HoustonPostoffice and a search through the files of that period were without results. But a call on Mr. A. E. Clarkson, who was with thePostthen and who is now business manager of thePost, 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 HoustonPostof 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 thePost.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 HoustonPost, 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 HoustonPostwhen 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 thePost. After readingThe Rolling StoneI 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 thePosteditorial 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 HoustonPostwas 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 thePostduring the time that he was producing the column:Office ofW. P. HOBBYHouston,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 HoustonPost, O. Henry, whose name was Sidney Porter, was a member of thePoststaff. As is well known, Mr. Porter began his daily journalistic work as a special feature writer for the HoustonPostand 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 HoustonPostand 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 thePostduring 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 HoustonPost, 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 HoustonPostfrom October 1895 to June 1896.During that time Mr. Porter wrote, and there was published from time to time in the columns of thePostvarious articles headed “Some Postscripts” and “Postscripts and Pencillings.”The writer was also connected with thePostduring 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 HoustonPost, 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 thePostduring 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 HoustonPostWith respect to O. Henry’s services, the Houston Post states as follows:Between musty covers of thePostfiles 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 ofThe 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 thePostat the invitation of its editor and his first column appeared in thePoston 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 thePostunder 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 thePosteditorial 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 HoustonPost, 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 thePostof June 22, 1896.

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 HoustonPost. He thought O. Henry must have worked for thePostsome time in the latter part of 1896 to the fall of 1897.

A visit to the HoustonPostoffice and a search through the files of that period were without results. But a call on Mr. A. E. Clarkson, who was with thePostthen and who is now business manager of thePost, 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 HoustonPostof 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 thePost.

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 HoustonPost, 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 HoustonPostwhen 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 thePost. After readingThe Rolling StoneI 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 thePosteditorial 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 HoustonPostwas 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.

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 HoustonPostwhen 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 thePost. After readingThe Rolling StoneI 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 thePosteditorial 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 HoustonPostwas 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 thePostduring the time that he was producing the column:

Office ofW. P. HOBBYHouston,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 HoustonPost, O. Henry, whose name was Sidney Porter, was a member of thePoststaff. As is well known, Mr. Porter began his daily journalistic work as a special feature writer for the HoustonPostand 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 HoustonPostand 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 thePostduring 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.

Office ofW. P. HOBBYHouston,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 HoustonPost, O. Henry, whose name was Sidney Porter, was a member of thePoststaff. As is well known, Mr. Porter began his daily journalistic work as a special feature writer for the HoustonPostand 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 HoustonPostand 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 thePostduring 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.

Yours very truly,

(Signed) W. P. Hobby.

Mr. A. E. Clarkson, secretary-treasurer of the HoustonPost, 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 HoustonPostfrom October 1895 to June 1896.During that time Mr. Porter wrote, and there was published from time to time in the columns of thePostvarious articles headed “Some Postscripts” and “Postscripts and Pencillings.”The writer was also connected with thePostduring 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.

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 HoustonPostfrom October 1895 to June 1896.

During that time Mr. Porter wrote, and there was published from time to time in the columns of thePostvarious articles headed “Some Postscripts” and “Postscripts and Pencillings.”

The writer was also connected with thePostduring 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.

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 HoustonPost, 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 thePostduring 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 HoustonPost

With respect to O. Henry’s services, the Houston Post states as follows:

Between musty covers of thePostfiles 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 ofThe 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 thePostat the invitation of its editor and his first column appeared in thePoston 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 thePostunder 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 thePosteditorial 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 HoustonPost, 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 thePostof June 22, 1896.

Postscripts

The Sensitive Colonel JayThe 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.”

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 LoyaltyTwo 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.”

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.”

“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 ItThere 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.

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?”

“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 ReputationOne 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. WheatRepresenting Kansas CitySmith and Jones Mo.Wholesale Undertakers’ SuppliesThe 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.

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. WheatRepresenting Kansas CitySmith and Jones Mo.Wholesale Undertakers’ Supplies

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.

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