A STRANGE STORY

The Rolling Stone, April 27, 1895Miss Potter: “Oh papa, what is that?”Mr. Potterof Texas: “That’s a live Count I bought for you in New York.”Miss Potter: “Oh, how nice, and Uncle George gave me a new six shooter,and the dogs haven’t had any exercise in a week. Won’t it be fun?”

[FromThe Rolling Stone.]

In the northern part of Austin there once dwelt an honest family by the name of Smothers. The family consisted of John Smothers, his wife, himself, their little daughter, five years of age, and her parents, making six people toward the population of the city when counted for a special write-up, but only three by actual count.

One night after supper the little girl was seized with a severe colic, and John Smothers hurried down town to get some medicine.

He never came back.

The little girl recovered and in time grew up to womanhood.

The mother grieved very much over her husband’s disappearance, and it was nearly three months before she married again, and moved to San Antonio.

The little girl also married in time, and after a few years had rolled around, she also had a little girl five years of age.

She still lived in the same house where they dwelt when her father had left and never returned.

One night by a remarkable coincidence her little girl was taken with cramp colic on the anniversary of the disappearance of John Smothers, who would now have been her grandfather if he had been alive and had a steady job.

“I will go downtown and get some medicine for her,” said John Smith (for it was none other than he whom she had married).

“No, no, dear John,” cried his wife. “You, too, might disappear forever, and then forget to come back.”

So John Smith did not go, and together they sat by the bedside of little Pansy (for that was Pansy’s name).

After a little Pansy seemed to grow worse, and John Smith again attempted to go for medicine, but his wife would not let him.

Suddenly the door opened, and an old man, stooped and bent, with long white hair, entered the room.

“Hello, here is grandpa,” said Pansy. She had recognized him before any of the others.

The old man drew a bottle of medicine from his pocket and gave Pansy a spoonful.

She got well immediately.

“I was a little late,” said John Smothers, “as I waited for a street car.”

Cartoon by O. Henry

[FromThe Rolling Stone.]

“Press me no more Mr. Snooper,” said Gladys Vavasour-Smith. “I can never be yours.”

“You have led me to believe different, Gladys,” said Bertram D. Snooper.

The setting sun was flooding with golden light the oriel windows of a magnificent mansion situated in one of the most aristocratic streets west of the brick yard.

Bertram D. Snooper, a poor but ambitious and talented young lawyer, had just lost his first suit. He had dared to aspire to the hand of Gladys Vavasour-Smith, the beautiful and talented daughter of one of the oldest and proudest families in the county. The bluest blood flowed in her veins. Her grandfather had sawed wood for the Hornsbys and an aunt on her mother’s side had married a man who had been kicked by General Lee’s mule.

The lines about Bertram D. Snooper’s hands and mouth were drawn tighter as he paced to and fro, waiting for a reply to the question he intended to ask Gladys as soon as he thought of one.

At last an idea occurred to him.

“Why will you not marry me?” he asked in an inaudible tone.

“Because,” said Gladys firmly, speaking easily with great difficulty, “the progression and enlightenment that the woman of to-day possesses demand that the man shall bring to the marriage altar a heart and body as free from the debasing and hereditary iniquities that now no longer exist except in the chimerical imagination of enslaved custom.”

“It is as I expected,” said Bertram, wiping his heated brow on the window curtain. “You have been reading books.”

“Besides that,” continued Gladys, ignoring the deadly charge, “you have no money.”

The blood of the Snoopers rose hastily and mantled the cheek of Bertram D. He put on his coat and moved proudly to the door.

“Stay here till I return,” he said, “I will be back in fifteen years.”

When he had finished speaking he ceased and left the room.

When he had gone, Gladys felt an uncontrollable yearning take possession of her. She said slowly, rather to herself than for publication, “I wonder if there was any of that cold cabbage left from dinner.”

She then left the room.

When she did so, a dark-complexioned man with black hair and gloomy, desperate looking clothes, came out of the fireplace where he had been concealed and stated:

“Aha! I have you in my power at last, Bertram D. Snooper. Gladys Vavasour-Smith shall be mine. I am in the possession of secrets that not a soul in the world suspects. I have papers to prove that Bertram Snooper is the heir to the Tom Bean estate,[12]and I have discovered that Gladys’ grandfather who sawed wood for the Hornsby’s was also a cook in Major Rhoads Fisher’s command during the war. Therefore, the family repudiate her, and she will marry me in order to drag their proud name down in the dust. Ha, ha, ha!”

As the reader has doubtless long ago discovered, this man was no other than Henry R. Grasty. Mr. Grasty then proceeded to gloat some more, and then with a sardonic laugh left for New York.

Fifteen years have elapsed.

Of course, our readers will understand that this is only supposed to the the case.

It really took less than a minute to make the little stars that represent an interval of time.

We could not afford to stop a piece in the middle and wait fifteen years before continuing it.

We hope this explanation will suffice. We are careful not to create any wrong impressions.

Gladys Vavasour-Smith and Henry R. Grasty stood at the marriage altar.

Mr. Grasty had evidently worked his rabbit’s foot successfully, although he was quite a while in doing so.

Just as the preacher was about to pronounce the fatal words on which he would have realized ten dollars and had the laugh on Mr. Grasty, the steeple of the church fell off and Bertram D. Snooper entered.

The preacher fell to the ground with a dull thud. He could ill afford to lose ten dollars. He was hastily removed and a cheaper one secured.

Bertram D. Snooper held aStatesmanin his hand.

“Aha!” he said, “I thought I would surprise you. I just got in this morning. Here is a paper noticing my arrival.”

He handed it to Henry R. Grasty.

Mr. Grasty looked at the paper and turned deadly pale. It was dated three weeks after Mr. Snooper’s arrival.

“Foiled again!” he hissed.

“Speak, Bertram D. Snooper,” said Gladys, “why have you come between me and Henry?”

“I have just discovered that I am the sole heir to Tom Bean’s estate and am worth two million dollars.”

With a glad cry Gladys threw herself in Bertram’s arms.

Henry R. Grasty drew from his breast pocket a large tin box and opened it, took therefrom 467 pages of closely written foolscap.

“What you say is true, Mr. Snooper, but I ask you to read that,” he said, handing it to Bertram Snooper.

Mr. Snooper had no sooner read the document than he uttered a piercing shriek and bit off a large chew of tobacco.

“All is lost,” he said.

“What is that document?” asked Gladys. “Governor Hogg’s message?”

“It is not as bad as that,” said Bertram, “but it deprives me of my entire fortune. But I care not for that, Gladys, since I have won you.”

“What is it? Speak, I implore you,” said Gladys.

“Those papers,” said Henry R. Grasty, “are the proofs of my appointment as administrator of the Tom Bean estate.”

With a loving cry Gladys threw herself in Henry R. Grasty’s arms.

Twenty minutes later Bertram D. Snooper was seen deliberately to enter a beer saloon on Seventeenth Street.

Cartoon by O. Henry

[This appeared inThe Rolling Stoneshortly before it “suspended publication” never to resume.]

The person who sweeps the office, translates letters from foreign countries, deciphers communications from graduates of business colleges, and does most of the writing for this paper, has been confined for the past two weeks to the under side of a large red quilt, with a joint caucus of la grippe and measles.

We have missed two issues ofThe Rolling Stone, and are now slightly convalescent, for which we desire to apologize and express our regrets.

Everybody’s term of subscription will be extended enough to cover all missed issues, and we hope soon to report that the goose remains suspended at a favorable altitude. People who have tried to run a funny paper and entertain a congregation of large piebald measles at the same time will understand something of the tact, finesse, and hot sassafras tea required to do so. We expect to get out the paper regularly from this time on, but are forced to be very careful, as improper treatment and deleterious after-effects of measles, combined with the high price of paper and presswork, have been known to cause a relapse. Any one not getting their paper regularly will please come down and see about it, bringing with them a ham or any little delicacy relished by invalids.

The Rolling Stone, October 13, 1894can he make the jump?

[This story was sent to Dr. Beall of Greensboro, N. C., in a letter in 1883, and so is one of O. Henry’s earliest attempts at writing.]

Lord Oakhurst lay dying in the oak chamber in the eastern wing of Oakhurst Castle. Through the open window in the calm of the summer evening, came the sweet fragrance of the early violets and budding trees, and to the dying man it seemed as if earth’s loveliness and beauty were never so apparent as on this bright June day, his last day of life.

His young wife, whom he loved with a devotion and strength that the presence of the king of terrors himself could not alter, moved about the apartment, weeping and sorrowful, sometimes arranging the sick man’s pillow and inquiring of him in low, mournful tones if anything could be done to give him comfort, and again, with stifled sobs, eating some chocolate caramels which she carried in the pocket of her apron. The servants went to and fro with that quiet and subdued tread which prevails in a house where death is an expected guest, and even the crash of broken china and shivered glass, which announced their approach, seemed to fall upon the ear with less violence and sound than usual.

Lord Oakhurst was thinking of days gone by, when he wooed and won his beautiful young wife, who was then but a charming and innocent girl. How clearly and minutely those scenes rose up at the call of his memory. He seemed to be standing once more beneath the old chestnut grove where they had plighted their troth in the twilight under the stars; while the rare fragrance of the June roses and the smell of supper came gently by on the breeze. There he had told her his love; how that his whole happiness and future joy lay in the hope that he might win her for a bride; that if she would trust her future to his care the devotedness of his lifetime should be hers, and his only thought would be to make her life one long day of sunshine and peanut candy.

How plainly he remembered how she had, with girlish shyness and coyness, at first hesitated, and murmured something to herself about “an old bald-headed galoot,” but when he told her that to him life without her would be a blasted mockery, and that his income was £50,000 a year, she threw herself on to him and froze there with the tenacity of a tick on a brindled cow, and said, with tears of joy, “Hen-ery, I am thine.”

And now he was dying. In a few short hours his spirit would rise up at the call of the Destroyer and, quitting his poor, weak, earthly frame, would go forth into that dim and dreaded Unknown Land, and solve with certainty that Mystery which revealeth itself not to mortal man.

A carriage drove rapidly up the avenue and stopped at the door. Sir Everhard FitzArmond, the famous London physician, who had been telegraphed for, alighted and quickly ascended the marble steps. Lady Oakhurst met him at the door, her lovely face expressing great anxiety and grief. “Oh, Sir Everhard, I am so glad you have come. He seems to be sinking rapidly. Did you bring the cream almonds I mentioned in the telegram?”

Sir Everhard did not reply, but silently handed her a package, and, slipping a couple of cloves into his mouth, ascended the stairs that led to Lord Oakhurst’s apartment. Lady Oakhurst followed.

Sir Everhard approached the bedside of his patient and laid his hand gently on this sick man’s diagnosis. A shade of feeling passed over his professional countenance as he gravely and solemnly pronounced these words: “Madam, your husband has croaked.”

Lady Oakhurst at first did not comprehend his technical language, and her lovely mouth let up for a moment on the cream almonds. But soon his meaning flashed upon her, and she seized an axe that her husband was accustomed to keep by his bedside to mangle his servants with, and struck open Lord Oakhurst’s cabinet containing his private papers, and with eager hands opened the document which she took therefrom. Then, with a wild, unearthly shriek that would have made a steam piano go out behind a barn and kick itself in despair, she fell senseless to the floor.

Sir Everhard FitzArmond picked up the paper and read its contents. It was Lord Oakhurst’s will, bequeathing all his property to a scientific institution which should have for its object the invention of a means for extracting peach brandy from sawdust.

Sir Everhard glanced quickly around the room. No one was in sight. Dropping the will, he rapidly transferred some valuable ornaments and rare specimens of gold and silver filigree work from the centre table to his pockets, and rang the bell for the servants.

Sir Everhard FitzArmond descended the stairway of Oakhurst Castle and passed out into the avenue that led from the doorway to the great iron gates of the park. Lord Oakhurst had been a great sportsman during his life and always kept a well-stocked kennel of curs, which now rushed out from their hiding places and with loud yelps sprang upon the physician, burying their fangs in his lower limbs and seriously damaging his apparel.

Sir Everhard, startled out of his professional dignity and usual indifference to human suffering, by the personal application of feeling, gave vent to a most horrible and blighting CURSE and ran with great swiftness to his carriage and drove off toward the city.

Page from The Plunkville Patriot

[FromThe Rolling Stone, Saturday, March 5, 1894.]

Whenever you visit Austin you should by all means go to see the General Land Office.

As you pass up the avenue you turn sharp round the corner of the court house, and on a steep hill before you you see a mediæval castle.

You think of the Rhine; the “castled crag of Drachenfels”; the Lorelei; and the vine-clad slopes of Germany. And German it is in every line of its architecture and design.

The plan was drawn by an old draftsman from the “Vaterland,” whose heart still loved the scenes of his native land, and it is said he reproduced the design of a certain castle near his birthplace, with remarkable fidelity.

Under the present administration a new coat of paint has vulgarized its ancient and venerable walls. Modern tiles have replaced the limestone slabs of its floors, worn in hollows by the tread of thousands of feet, and smart and gaudy fixtures have usurped the place of the time-worn furniture that has been consecrated by the touch of hands that Texas will never cease to honor.

But even now, when you enter the building, you lower your voice, and time turns backward for you, for the atmosphere which you breathe is cold with the exudation of buried generations.

The building is stone with a coating of concrete; the walls are immensely thick; it is cool in the summer and warm in the winter; it is isolated and sombre; standing apart from the other state buildings, sullen and decaying, brooding on the past.

Twenty years ago it was much the same as now; twenty years from now the garish newness will be worn off and it will return to its appearance of gloomy decadence.

People living in other states can form no conception of the vastness and importance of the work performed and the significance of the millions of records and papers composing the archives of this office.

The title deeds, patents, transfers and legal documents connected with every foot of land owned in the state of Texas are filed here.

Volumes could be filled with accounts of the knavery, the double-dealing, the cross purposes, the perjury, the lies, the bribery, the alteration and erasing, the suppressing and destroying of papers, the various schemes and plots that for the sake of the almighty dollar have left their stains upon the records of the General Land Office.

No reference is made to the employees. No more faithful, competent and efficient force of men exists in the clerical portions of any government, but there is—or was, for their day is now over—a class of land speculators commonly called land sharks, unscrupulous and greedy, who have left their trail in every department of this office, in the shape of titles destroyed, patents cancelled, homes demolished and torn away, forged transfers and lying affidavits.

Before the modern tiles were laid upon the floors, there were deep hollows in the limestone slabs, worn by the countless feet that daily trod uneasily through its echoing corridors, pressing from file room to business room, from commissioner’s sanctum to record books and back again.

The honest but ignorant settler, bent on saving the little plot of land he called home, elbowed the wary land shark who was searching the records for evidence to oust him; the lordly cattle baron, relying on his influence and money, stood at the Commissioner’s desk side by side with the preëmptor, whose little potato patch lay like a minute speck of island in the vast, billowy sea, of his princely pastures, and played the old game of “freeze-out,” which is as old as Cain and Abel.

The trail of the serpent is through it all.

Honest, earnest men have wrought for generations striving to disentangle the shameful coil that certain years of fraud and infamy have wound. Look at the files and see the countless endorsements of those in authority:

“Transfer doubtful—locked up.”

“Certificate a forgery—locked up.”

“Signature a forgery.”

“Patent refused—duplicate patented elsewhere.”

“Field notes forged.”

“Certificates stolen from office”—and so on ad infinitum.

The record books, spread upon long tables, in the big room upstairs, are open to the examination of all. Open them, and you will find the dark and greasy finger prints of half a century’s handling. The quick hand of the land grabber has fluttered the leaves a million times; the damp clutch of the perturbed tiller of the soil has left traces of his calling on the ragged leaves.

Interest centres in the file room.

This is a large room, built as a vault, fireproof, and entered by but a single door.

There is “No Admission” on the portal; and the precious files are handed out by a clerk in charge only on presentation of an order signed by the Commissioner or chief clerk.

In years past too much laxity prevailed in its management, and the files were handled by all comers, simply on their request, and returned at their will, or not at all.

In those days most of the mischief was done. In the file room, there are about –––– files, each in a paper wrapper, and comprising the title papers of a particular tract of land.

You ask the clerk in charge for the papers relating to any survey in Texas. They are arranged simply in districts and numbers.

He disappears from the door, you hear the sliding of a tin box, the lid snaps, and the file is in your hand.

Go up there some day and call for Bexar Scrip No. 2692.

The file clerk stares at you for a second, says shortly:

“Out of file.”

It has been missing twenty years.

The history of that file has never been written before.

Twenty years ago there was a shrewd land agent living in Austin who devoted his undoubted talents and vast knowledge of land titles, and the laws governing them, to the locating of surveys made by illegal certificates, or improperly made, and otherwise of no value through non-compliance with the statutes, or whatever flaws his ingenious and unscrupulous mind could unearth.

He found a fatal defect in the title of the land as on file in Bexar Scrip No. 2692 and placed a new certificate upon the survey in his own name.

The law was on his side.

Every sentiment of justice, of right, and humanity was against him.

The certificate by virtue of which the original survey had been made was missing.

It was not be found in the file, and no memorandum or date on the wrapper to show that it had ever been filed.

Under the law the land was vacant, unappropriated public domain, and open to location.

The land was occupied by a widow and her only son, and she supposed her title good.

The railroad had surveyed a new line through the property, and it had doubled in value.

Sharp, the land agent, did not communicate with her in any way until he had filed his papers, rushed his claim through the departments and into the patent room for patenting.

Then he wrote her a letter, offering her the choice of buying from him or vacating at once.

He received no reply.

One day he was looking through some files and came across the missing certificate. Some one, probably an employee of the office, had by mistake, after making some examination, placed it in the wrong file, and curiously enough another inadvertence, in there being no record of its filing on the wrapper, had completed the appearance of its having never been filed.

Sharp called for the file in which it belonged and scrutinized it carefully, fearing he might have overlooked some endorsement regarding its return to the office.

On the back of the certificate was plainly endorsed the date of filing, according to law, and signed by the chief clerk.

If this certificate should be seen by the examining clerk, his own claim, when it came up for patenting, would not be worth the paper on which it was written.

Sharp glanced furtively around. A young man, or rather a boy about eighteen years of age, stood a few feet away regarding him closely with keen black eyes. Sharp, a little confused, thrust the certificate into the file where it properly belonged and began gathering up the other papers.

The boy came up and leaned on the desk beside him.

“A right interesting office, sir!” he said. “I have never been in here before. All those papers, now, they are about lands, are they not? The titles and deeds, and such things?”

“Yes,” said Sharp. “They are supposed to contain all the title papers.”

“This one, now,” said the boy, taking up Bexar Scrip No. 2692, “what land does this represent the title of? Ah, I see ‘Six hundred and forty acres in B–––– country? Absalom Harris, original grantee.’ Please tell me, I am so ignorant of these things, how can you tell a good survey from a bad one. I am told that there are a great many illegal and fraudulent surveys in this office. I suppose this one is all right?”

“No,” said Sharp. “The certificate is missing. It is invalid.”

“That paper I just saw you place in that file, I suppose is something else—field notes, or a transfer probably?”

“Yes,” said Sharp, hurriedly, “corrected field notes. Excuse me, I am a little pressed for time.”

The boy was watching him with bright, alert eyes.

It would never do to leave the certificate in the file; but he could not take it out with that inquisitive boy watching him.

He turned to the file room, with a dozen or more files in his hands, and accidentally dropped part of them on the floor. As he stooped to pick them up he swiftly thrust Bexar Scrip No. 2692 in the inside breast pocket of his coat.

This happened at just half-past four o’clock, and when the file clerk took the files he threw them in a pile in his room, came out and locked the door.

The clerks were moving out of the doors in long, straggling lines.

It was closing time.

Sharp did not desire to take the file from the Land Office.

The boy might have seen him place the file in his pocket, and the penalty of the law for such an act was very severe.

Some distance back from the file room was the draftsman’s room now entirely vacated by its occupants.

Sharp dropped behind the outgoing stream of men, and slipped slyly into this room.

The clerks trooped noisily down the iron stairway, singing, whistling, and talking.

Below, the night watchman awaited their exit, ready to close and bar the two great doors to the south and cast.

It is his duty to take careful note each day that no one remains in the building after the hour of closing.

Sharp waited until all sounds had ceased.

It was his intention to linger until everything was quiet, and then to remove the certificate from the file, and throw the latter carelessly on some draftsman’s desk as if it had been left there during the business of the day.

He knew also that he must remove the certificate from the office or destroy it, as the chance finding of it by a clerk would lead to its immediately being restored to its proper place, and the consequent discovery that his location over the old survey was absolutely worthless.

As he moved cautiously along the stone floor the loud barking of the little black dog, kept by the watchman, told that his sharp ears had heard the sounds of his steps.

The great, hollow rooms echoed loudly, move as lightly as he could.

Sharp sat down at a desk and laid the file before him.

In all his queer practices and cunning tricks he had not yet included any act that was downright criminal.

He had always kept on the safe side of the law, but in the deed he was about to commit there was no compromise to be made with what little conscience he had left.

There is no well-defined boundary line between honesty and dishonesty.

The frontiers of one blend with the outside limits of the other, and he who attempts to tread this dangerous ground may be sometimes in one domain and sometimes in the other; so the only safe road is the broad highway that leads straight through and has been well defined by line and compass.

Sharp was a man of what is called high standing in the community. That is, his word in a trade was as good as any man’s; his check was as good as so much cash, and so regarded; he went to church regularly; went in good society and owed no man anything.

He was regarded as a sure winner in any land trade he chose to make, but that was his occupation.

The act he was about to commit now would place him forever in the ranks of those who chose evil for their portion—if it was found out.

More than that, it would rob a widow and her son of property soon to be of great value, which, if not legally theirs, was theirs certainly by every claim of justice.

But he had gone too far to hesitate.

His own survey was in the patent room for patenting. His own title was about to be perfected by the State’s own hand.

The certificate must be destroyed.

He leaned his head on his hands for a moment, and as he did so a sound behind him caused his heart to leap with guilty fear, but before he could rise, a hand came over his shoulder and grasped the file.

He rose quickly, as white as paper, rattling his chair loudly on the stone floor.

The boy who land spoken to him earlier stood contemplating him with contemptuous and flashing eyes, and quietly placed the file in the left breast pocket of his coat.

“So, Mr. Sharp, by nature as well as by name,” he said, “it seems that I was right in waiting behind the door in order to see you safely out. You will appreciate the pleasure I feel in having done so when I tell you my name is Harris. My mother owns the land on which you have filed, and if there is any justice in Texas she shall hold it. I am not certain, but I think I saw you place a paper in this file this afternoon, and it is barely possible that it may be of value to me. I was also impressed with the idea that you desired to remove it again, but had not the opportunity. Anyway, I shall keep it until to-morrow and let the Commissioner decide.”

Far back among Mr. Sharp’s ancestors there must have been some of the old berserker blood, for his caution, his presence of mind left him, and left him possessed of a blind, devilish, unreasoning rage that showed itself in a moment in the white glitter of his eye.

“Give me that file, boy,” he said, thickly, holding out his hand.

“I am no such fool, Mr. Sharp,” said the youth. “This file shall be laid before the Commissioner to-morrow for examination. If he finds—Help! Help!”

Sharp was upon him like a tiger and bore him to the floor. The boy was strong and vigorous, but the suddenness of the attack gave him no chance to resist. He struggled up again to his feet, but it was an animal, with blazing eyes and cruel-looking teeth that fought him, instead of a man.

Mr. Sharp, a man of high standing and good report, was battling for his reputation.

Presently there was a dull sound, and another, and still one more, and a blade flashing white and then red, and Edward Harris dropped down like some stuffed effigy of a man, that boys make for sport, with his limbs all crumpled and lax, on the stone floor of the Land Office.

The old watchman was deaf, and heard nothing.

The little dog barked at the foot of the stairs until his master made him come into his room.

Sharp stood there for several minutes holding in his hand his bloody clasp knife, listening to the cooing of the pigeons on the roof, and the loud ticking of the clock above the receiver’s desk.

A map rustled on the wall and his blood turned to ice; a rat ran across some strewn papers, and his scalp prickled, and he could scarcely moisten his dry lips with his tongue.

Between the file room and the draftsman’s room there is a door that opens on a small dark spiral stairway that winds from the lower floor to the ceiling at the top of the house.

This stairway was not used then, nor is it now.

It is unnecessary, inconvenient, dusty, and dark as night, and was a blunder of the architect who designed the building.

This stairway ends above at the tent-shaped space between the roof and the joists.

That space is dark and forbidding, and being useless is rarely visited.

Sharp opened this door and gazed for a moment up this narrow cobwebbed stairway.

After dark that night a man opened cautiously one of the lower windows of the Land Office, crept out with great circumspection and disappeared in the shadows.

One afternoon, a week after this time, Sharp lingered behind again after the clerks had left and the office closed. The next morning the first comers noticed a broad mark in the dust on the upstairs floor, and the same mark was observed below stairs near a window.

It appeared as if some heavy and rather bulky object had been dragged along through the limestone dust. A memorandum book with “E. Harris” written on the flyleaf was picked up on the stairs, but nothing particular was thought of any of these signs.

Circulars and advertisements appeared for a long time in the papers asking for information concerning Edward Harris, who left his mother’s home on a certain date and had never been heard of since.

After a while these things were succeeded by affairs of more recent interest, and faded from the public mind.

Sharp died two years ago, respected and regretted. The last two years of his life were clouded with a settled melancholy for which his friends could assign no reason. The bulk of his comfortable fortune was made from the land he obtained by fraud and crime.

The disappearance of the file was a mystery that created some commotion in the Land Office, but he got his patent.

It is a well-known tradition in Austin and vicinity that there is a buried treasure of great value somewhere on the banks of Shoal Creek, about a mile west of the city.

Three young men living in Austin recently became possessed of what they thought was a clue of the whereabouts of the treasure, and Thursday night they repaired to the place after dark and plied the pickaxe and shovel with great diligence for about three hours.

At the end of that time their efforts were rewarded by the finding of a box buried about four feet below the surface, which they hastened to open.

The light of a lantern disclosed to their view the fleshless bones of a human skeleton with clothing still wrapping its uncanny limbs.

They immediately left the scene and notified the proper authorities of their ghastly find.

On closer examination, in the left breast pocket of the skeleton’s coat, there was found a flat, oblong packet of papers, cut through and through in three places by a knife blade, and so completely soaked and clotted with blood that it had become an almost indistinguishable mass.

With the aid of a microscope and the exercise of a little imagination this much can be made out of the letter; at the top of the papers:

B–xa– ––rip N– 2–92.

[FromThe Rolling Stone, June 23, 1894.]

Can you inform me where I can buy an interest in a newspaper of some kind? I have some money and would be glad to invest it in something of the sort, if some one would allow me to put in my capital against his experience.

College Graduate.

Telegraph us your address at once, day message. Keep telegraphing every ten minutes at our expense until we see you. Will start on first train after receiving your wire.

Who was the author of the line, “Breathes there a man with soul so dead?”

G. F.

This was written by a visitor to the State Saengerfest of 1892 while conversing with a member who had just eaten a large slice of limburger cheese.

Where can I get the “Testimony of the Rocks”?

Geologist.

See the reports of the campaign committees after the election in November.

Please state what the seven wonders of the world are. I know five of them, I think, but can’t find out the other two.

Scholar.

The Temple of Diana, at Lexington, Ky.; the Great Wall of China; Judge Von Rosenberg (the Colossus of Roads); the Hanging Gardens at Albany; a San Antonio Sunday school; Mrs. Frank Leslie, and the Populist party.

What day did Christmas come on in the year 1847?

Constant Reader.

The 25th of December.

What does an F. F. V. mean?

Ignorant.

What does he mean by what? If he takes you by the arm and tells you how much you are like a brother of his in Richmond, he means Feel For Your Vest, for he wants to borrow a five. If he holds his head high and don’t speak to you on the street he means that he already owes you ten and is Following a Fresh Victim.

Please decide a bet for us. My friend says that the sentence, “The negro bought the watermelonofthe farmer” is correct, and I say it should be “The negro bought the watermelon from the farmer.” Which is correct?

Neither. It should read, “The negro stole the watermelon from the farmer.”

When do the Texas game laws go into effect?

Hunter.

When you sit down at the table.

Do you know where I can trade a section of fine Panhandle land for a pair of pants with a good title?

Land Agent.

We do not. You can’t raise anything on land in that section. A man can always raise a dollar on a good pair of pants.

Name in order the three best newspapers in Texas.

Advertiser.

Well, the GalvestonNewsruns about second, and the San AntonioExpressthird. Let us hear from you again.

Has a married woman any rights in Texas?

Prospector.

Hush, Mr. Prospector. Not quite so loud, if you please. Come up to the office some afternoon, and if everything seems quiet, come inside, and look at our eye, and our suspenders hanging on to one button, and feel the lump on the top of our head. Yes, she has some rights of her own, and everybody else’s she can scoop in.

Who was the author of the sayings, “A public office is a public trust,” and “I would rather be right than President”?

Eli Perkins.

Is the Lakeside Improvement Company making anything out of their own town tract on the lake?

Inquisitive.

Yes, lots.

[This and the other poems that follow have been found in files ofThe Rolling Stone, in the HoustonPost’sPostscripts and in manuscript. There are many others, but these few have been selected rather arbitrarily, to round out this collection.]

In the hush of the drowsy afternoon,When the very wind on the breast of JuneLies settled, and hot white traceryOf the shattered sunlight filters freeThrough the unstinted leaves to the pied cool sward;On a dead tree branch sings the saddest bardOf the birds that be;’Tis the lone Pewee.Its note is a sob, and its note is pitchedIn a single key, like a soul bewitchedTo a mournful minstrelsy.“Pewee, Pewee,” doth it ever cry;A sad, sweet minor threnodyThat threads the aisles of the dim hot groveLike a tale of a wrong or a vanished love;And the fancy comes that the wee dun birdPerchance was a maid, and her heart was stirredBy some lover’s rhymeIn a golden time,And broke when the world turned false and cold;And her dreams grew dark and her faith grew coldIn some fairy far-off clime.And her soul crept into the Pewee’s breast;And forever she cries with a strange unrestFor something lost, in the afternoon;For something missed from the lavish June;For the heart that died in the long ago;For the livelong pain that pierceth so:Thus the Pewee cries,While the evening liesSteeped in the languorous still sunshine,Rapt, to the leaf and the bough and the vineOf some hopeless paradise.

“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 downAnd the chickens went to roost;And he seized the collar of the poor young 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 sleepAnd flat on the floor he lay;And the last he heard was the great man’s words,“I have nothing at all to say.”

“I push my boat among the reeds;I sit and stare about;Queer slimy things crawl through the weeds,Put to a sullen rout.I paddle under cypress trees;All fearfully I peerThrough oozy channels when the breezeComes rustling at my ear.“The long moss hangs perpetually;Gray scalps of buried years;Blue crabs steal out and stare at me,And seem to gauge my fears;I start to hear the eel swim by;I shudder when the craneStrikes at his prey; I turn to fly,At drops of sudden rain.“In every little cry of birdI hear a tracking shout;From every sodden leaf that’s stirredI see a face frown out;My soul shakes when the water ratCowed by the blue snake flies;Black knots from tree holes glimmer atMe with accusive eyes.“Through all the murky silence ringsA cry not born of earth;An endless, deep, unechoing thingThat owns not human birth.I see no colors in the skySave red, as blood is red;I pray to God to still that cryFrom pallid lips and dead.“One spot in all that stagnant wasteI shun as moles shun light,And turn my prow to make all hasteTo fly before the night.A poisonous mound hid from the sun,Where crabs hold revelry;Where eels and fishes feed uponThe Thing that once was He.“At night I steal along the shore;Within my hut I creep;But awful stars blink through the door,To hold me from my sleep.The river gurgles like his throat,In little choking coves,And loudly dins that phantom noteFrom out the awful groves.“I shout with laughter through the night:I rage in greatest glee;My fears all vanish with the lightOh! splendid nights they be!I see her weep; she calls his name;He answers not, nor will;My soul with joy is all aflame;I laugh, and laugh, and thrill.“I count her teardrops as they fall;I flout my daytime fears;I mumble thanks to God for allThese gibes and happy jeers.But, when the warning dawn awakes,Begins my wandering;With stealthy strokes through tangled brakes,A wasted, frightened thing.”

Wild hair flying, in a matted maze,Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze;Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze,As o’er the keno board boldly he plays.—That’s Texas Bill.Wild hair flying, in a matted maze,Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze;Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze,As o’er the keyboard boldly he plays.—That’s Paderewski.

There came unto ye editorA poet, pale and wan,And at the table sate him down,A roll within his hand.Ye editor accepted it,And thanked his lucky fates;Ye poet had to yield it upTo a king full on eights.

Just now when the whitening blossoms flareOn the apple trees and the growing grassCreeps forth, and a balm is in the air;With my lighted pipe and well-filled glassOf the old farm I am dreaming,And softly smiling, seemingTo see the bright sun beamingUpon the old home farm.And when I think how we milked the cows,And hauled the hay from the meadows low;And walked the furrows behind the plows,And chopped the cotton to make it growI’d much rather be here dreamingAnd smiling, only seemingTo see the hot sun gleamingUpon the old home farm.

A Poet sang so wondrous sweetThat toiling thousands paused and listened long;So lofty, strong and noble were his themes,It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song.He, god-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man,And bade him dry his foolish, shameful tears;Taught that each soul on its proud self should lean,And from that rampart scorn all earth-born fears.The Poet grovelled on a fresh heaped mound,Raised o’er the clay of one he’d fondly loved;And cursed the world, and drenched the sod with tearsAnd all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved.

The lullaby boy to the same old tuneWho abandons his drum and toysFor the purpose of dying in early JuneIs the kind the public enjoys.But, just for a change, please sing us a song,Of the sore-toed boy that’s fly,And freckled and mean, and ugly, and bad,And positively will not die.

Lives of great men all remind usRose is red and violet’s blue;Johnny’s got his gun behind us’Cause the lamb loved Mary too.—Robert Burns’ “Hocht Time in the aud Town.”I’d rather write this, as bad as it isThan be Will Shakespeare’s shade;I’d rather be known as an F. F. V.Than in Mount Vernon laid.I’d rather count ties from Denver to TroyThan to head Booth’s old programme;I’d rather be special for the New YorkWorldThan to lie with Abraham.For there’s stuff in the can, there’s Dolly and Fan,And a hundred things to choose;There’s a kiss in the ring, and every old thingThat a real live man can use.I’d rather fight flies in a boarding houseThan fill Napoleon’s grave,And snuggle up warm in my three slat bedThan be André the brave.I’d rather distribute a coat of redOn the town with a wad of doughJust now, than to have my cognomenSpelled “Michael Angelo.”For a small live man, if he’s prompt on handWhen the good things pass around,While the world’s on tap has a better snapThan a big man under ground.

I’m thinking to-night of the old farm, Ned,And my heart is heavy and sadAs I think of the days that by have fledSince I was a little lad.There rises before me each spot I knowOf the old home in the dell,The fields, and woods, and meadows belowThat memory holds so well.The city is pleasant and lively, Ned,But what to us is its charm?To-night all my thoughts are fixed, instead,On our childhood’s old home farm.I know you are thinking the same, dear Ned,With your head bowed on your arm,For to-morrow at four we’ll be jerked out of bedTo plow on that darned old farm.

He who, when torrid Summer’s sickly glareBeat down upon the city’s parched walls,Sat him within a room scarce 8 by 9,And, with tongue hanging out and panting breath,Perspiring, pierced by pangs of prickly heat,Wrote variations of the seaside jokeWe all do know and always loved so well,And of cool breezes and sweet girls that layIn shady nooks, and pleasant windy covesAnonWill in that self-same room, with tattered quiltWrapped round him, and blue stiffening hands,All shivering, fireless, pinched by winter’s blasts,Will hale us forth upon the rounds once more,So that we may expect it not in vain,The joke of how with curses deep and coarsePapa puts up the pipe of parlor stove.So yeWho greet with tears this olden favorite,Drop one for him who, though he strives to pleaseMust write about the things he never sees.

This is the MexicanDon José CalderonOne of God’s countrymen.Land of the buzzard.Cheap silver dollar, andCacti and murderers.Why has he left his landLand of the lazy man,Land of the pulqueLand of the bull fight,Fleas and revolution.This is the reason,Hark to the wherefore;Listen and tremble.One of his ancestors,Ancient and garlicky,Probably grandfather,Died with his boots on.Killed by the Texans,Texans with big guns,At San Jacinto.Died without benefitOf priest or clergy;Died full of minie balls,Mescal and pepper.Don José CalderonHeard of the tragedy.Heard of it, thought of it,Vowed a deep vengeance;Vowed retributionOn the Americans,Murderous gringos,Especially Texans.“Valga me Dios! queLadrones, diablos,Matadores, mentidores,Caraccos y perros,Voy a matarles,Con solos mis manos,Toditas sin falta.”Thus swore the HidalgoDon José Calderon.He hied him to Austin.Bought him a basket,A barrel of pepper,And another of garlic;Also a rope he bought.That was his stock in trade;Nothing else had he.Nor was he rated inDun or in Bradstreet,Though he meant business,Don José Calderon,Champion of Mexico,Don José Calderon,Seeker of vengeance.With his stout lariat,Then he caught swiftlyTomcats and puppy dogs,Caught them and cooked them,Don José Calderon,Vower of vengeance.Now on the sidewalkSits the avengerSelling Tamales toInnocent purchasers.Dire is thy vengeance,Oh, José Calderon,Pitiless NemesisFearful RedresserOf the wrongs done to thySainted grandfather.Now the doomed Texans,Rashly hilarious,Buy of the deadly wares,Buy and devour.Rounders at midnight,Citizens solid,Bankers and newsboys,Bootblacks and preachers,Rashly importunate,Courting destruction.Buy and devour.Beautiful maidensBuy and devour,Gentle society youthsBuy and devour.Buy and devourThis thing called Tamale;Made of rat terrier,Spitz dog and poodle.Maltese cat, boarding houseSteak and red pepper.Garlic and tallow,Corn meal and shucks.Buy without shameSit on store steps and eat,Stand on the street and eat,Ride on the cars and eat,Strewing the shucks aroundOver creation.Dire is thy vengeance,Don José Calderon.For the slight thing we didKilling thy grandfather.What boots it if we killedOnly one greaser,Don José Calderon?This is your deep revenge,You have greased all of us,Greased a whole nationWith your Tamales,Don José Calderon.Santos Esperiton,Vincente Camillo,Quitana de Rios,De Rosa y Ribera.

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