; N R Y Collection of 9mertcan Utterature iicqueatfjrb to Cf)e Htbrarp of tfje Hniuersttp of Jlortf) Carolina "He gave back as rain that which he received as mist' ' C6 - H5^3V\3 C. Alphonso Smith, Department of English, Kaval .Academy, Annapolis, Maryland. UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 00032193689 This book must not be taken from the Library building. THIS EDITION IS LIMITED TO FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVEN COPIES OF WHICH THREE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY- SEVEN ARE FOR SUBSCRIBERS IN THE UNITED STATES, AND FIFTY FOR SUB- SCRIBERS IN ENGLAND. NO, SL LETTERS TO LITHOPOLIS FROM Q, HENRY TO MABEL WAGNALLS LETTERS TO LITHOPOLIS FROM O. HENRY TO MABEL WAGNALLS GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1922 COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN PRINTED IX THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY LITE PRESS GARDEN CITY. N. Y PREFACE "The human Will, that force unseen, The offspring of a deathless Soul, Can hew a way to any goal, Though walls of granite intervene." IT is always a privilege to meet a great man. The revelation of him when off-guard and not busied with fashioning either forms or fancies for the public eye is sure to radiate some flash of personality that is inspiring. There are just two methods of encountering genius away from the limelight — by a handshake or a letter. The handshake and ex- change of words may be eternally impressive — to one person; but to meet, in the pages of a letter, with one of these soaring spirits — one whose altitude is measured by the depth of Vll PREFACE his insight — this is an exhilaration that may be shared with others. My first meeting with O. Henry was of this sort, and the thrill of astonish- ment I received I am enabled to pass on to every reader of this little book. The experience, surprising as it was delightful, had a prelude I must ex- plain. Some months before, I had read a story that greatly impressed me; it was "Roads of Destiny." Not only was I impressed by the originality of the idea and style, but also by the originality of the author's name. Just "Henry" with an exclamation before it. I wondered how a writer could hope to be remembered with such a casual tag-mark. What su- perb indifference to fame! Then, on second thought, I considered it a clever bid for fame — a name so coy as to be conspicuous. Then, on third viii PREFACE thought, that Henry name began to stir up activities in other crevices of my brain. I had a great grand- mother named Henry. Our family tree I had long since discovered to be sadly lacking in decorations. No stars or coronets hung on its boughs, nor even a horse-thief to vary the respectable monotony. Perhaps here was an offshoot I had missed — a Henry branch that might prove illus- trious. I searched in "Who's Who" and asked literary friends, but "O. Henry" was on no list of celebrities I could find. So I scribbled a few lines to his publisher, told who I was — or rather who my father was — and, as one publisher to another, so to speak, I begged to know whether O. Henry was man, woman, or wraith. I mailed the missive — and forgot it. Time — but why be prosaic? "The ix PREFACE days," to quote from my favourite author, "with Sundays at their head, formed into hebdomadal squads, and the weeks, captained by the full moon, closed ranks into menstrual companies carrying Tempus Fugit on their banners." By the time Thirty-fourth Street was displaying sport suits and para- sols and the trunk stores were an- nouncing instant removals, my mother and I made our annual visit to my grandmother's home in Lith- opolis. You have possibly never heard of this town. Don't look for it on the map: it isn't there. And don't look for it from any railroad train window: it isn't there, either, Lithopolis stands alone — faithfully guarding an ancient stone quarry so long disused that no one knows when it last was drilled or blasted. Again let me say that Lithopolis stands PREFACE alone, maintaining an aloofness, an exclusiveness, that is unmatched, I believe, by any other cluster of frame houses radiating around a one-block trading area of single-story shops. Not even the famous walled-in town of Rothenburg is so difficult to enter and so difficult to get out of after you're in. The daily mail-wagon was, at the time of our visits there, the sole public means of transit thither and thence; and likewise the one excitement of the day. There are three hundred and fifty inhabitants in Lithopolis — never more, never less. The two hundred and eight houses it contains are kept in repair, and even rebuilt, but a new house is never added. Rather than do this people leave the town — or die. It is cheaper. People never move to Lithopolis, but they can't help being born there. This is what xi PREFACE happened to both my father and mother. Lithopolis is elite as the St. Nicholas Club of Manhattan: to belong to it you must be born to it. And, by way of further resem- blance, its people are eternally clan- nish; they have a way of clinging to the home-town with a fondness that is irrefutable. Though the place is small and primitive, the surrounding hills are delightful, and the near-by ravine, with its winding stream, would thrill the heart of a Corot. The in- habitants are neighbourly and on good terms with one another in spite of the paling fences that divide off their front yards. Flowers grow near every doorway, and at the end of Main Street, up on the hill, is a picturesque graveyard shaded by stately elms and spruce that give it an impressive dignity. There is a tinge of old-world aris- xii PREFACE tocracy in the town's disdain for all phases of modern industry. Repose- ful as a medieval princess in a rock- bound castle, Lithopolis takes no heed of the whirring wheels and high- pressure mechanism of the outer world. The little community is al- most self-sustaining. In its strag- gling business block you will find, besides the general store, a drug store — that indulges in literature on the side, a barber's shop — very active on Saturday evenings, and a butcher's shop that never saw a filet or a tender- loin. There is a millinery shop that cuddles close to the post office, and just beyond the second lane sounds a blacksmith's shop. The hardware store plies a good trade in plows — and also deals in coffins. There are four churches to say prayers over the coffins when they are filled, and on the other street (there are only two) xiii PREFACE is the shop of a tombstone-maker (her name is Alta Jungkurth — more of her later). And opposite to this shop stands the house and surround- ing trees, the little garden and chicken corral of my eighty-year-old grand- mother whose mother had been born a Henry. Though the outlook from my grandmother's window was a bit doleful, the Lutheran church right adjoining imparted an atmosphere of peace and strength that enabled us to contemplate the tombstones across the way with equanimity. One grew quite accustomed to them, in fact. As new monuments were frequently erected in the graveyard to replace less pretentious ones, the discarded old stones became an accumulation. Whenever a good flat-surfaced slab was needed for any sort of purpose the neighbours knew where to ask xiv PREFACE for it. Mrs. Needles decapitated her chickens on a stout piece of slate that bore a worn inscription to Ezekiel Smith, born 1803 — died 18 10. Another neighbour's front doorstep, had you peered underneath, told of one Hermann Baumgarten, who left this world in 1842. All things were conducive to mak- ing my grandmother's home a peace- ful place in which to dream dreams and put them into words. For this purpose I used to resort to the attic — a huge space with slanting roof, and to my mind the best furnished region in the house. There was a spinning wheel, and several old chests (one had a secret drawer), and, most eerie of all, was a huge-faced, highly decorated clock, decrepit and out of use, that stood on the floor. This clock had an uncanny way of striking One at rare intervals, apparently for XV PREFACE no reason at all, though we finally concluded that some unnoticed jar- ring of. the floor must have occa- sioned it. An apple tree bough, close to the house, swept across one of the attic windows. In the spring, when this bough was abloom and the win- dow was open — ah! — it was a place for any sort of wild fancy to unfold. Secreted one day in my precious attic, I had seated myself on the floor by a chest, where I was scribbling energetically and picturing myself as a starving poet forced to dwell near the eaves, when I heard the voice of my mother: "Come down, Mabel; here's a letter from Henry !" I had a distant cousin by this name from whom letters were frequent and I was puzzled at the special summons to read a letter from him. Again she called: xvi PREFACE "From Henry, the author." Whereupon I said "O!" I came down and was soon reading aloud the jolliest, breeziest, most unusual letter that had ever come my way. After several re-readings to the entire household, there loomed before me the prospect of replying to this post-impressionist epistle. How to answer this answer to my query about "O. Henry" was a problem. But I didn't go up to the attic to do it. I drew the old Boston rocker up to my grandmother's big centre table, shoved back the Bible, the family album, and the lamp, and soon pushed my pen easily enough into the opening sentence with the natural statement that his letter had been forwarded to Lithopolis. Then, as day follows night, as ferment follows yeast, that name "Lithopolis" had to be explained. It is a name never xvii PREFACE mentioned to the uninitiated without eliciting a circle of questions, so I put down, then and there, all that seemed to me needful about the cosmopolis Lithopolis. After dinner I handed the letter over the fence to Nellie Laney (the postmistress) on her way up street to sort the noon mail. Not long after this there was an- other red-letter day in the little house next to the Lutheran church; eight pages of uproarious manuscript from my mysterious, ink-slinging, Texas- cowboy correspondent sojourning in New York were read aloud to my mother and grandmother, the hired girl and the cat, to say nothing of a neighbour or two (O. Henry's repu- tation was growing!). And right then, as I read those rollicking pages, I realized that Lithopolis had occa- sioned them. I realized this fact more and more as his letters con- xviii PREFACE tinued to come. His publishers real- ize it to-day: hence the title on the cover of this book. A little old, obscure town it is, unfitted for any highway place along the roads of steel. In a quiet nook on "Roads of Destiny' ' is where you will find Lithopolis. A great mind and spirit, speeding on to fame, found time once to note and give heed in his letters to the side-tracked tiny town. O. Henry, unheralded as yet, a lone stranger in New York, evidently found enough diversion in my Litho- politan news-letters to impel him to continue making use of the Pennsyl- vania and Hocking Valley Railroads, in conjunction with two horses and a mail-wagon, as carriers for some high- grade samples of the World's Best Literature. It required no excep- tional genius on my part to realize that his letters were worth saving. I xix PREFACE kept them at first in my desk; then in a letter file; then (my precaution keeping pace with his fame) in a tin box; and finally they were handed over to my father who had suggested placing them in his safe at the office. This he did — unmindful of the fact that that particular safe had an un- canny reputation for discriminating judgment in the matter of priceless mementos. It was the same safe that had swallowed up and concealed for years Dr. Funk's famous "Widow's Mite" — an incident that required a whole book to explain. That safe now promptly made away with our precious O. Henry letters, and in spite of much frantic search for them, the little shelf where they had been, where they should have been, and where they certainly were placed — was a shelf blankly innocent of any papers bearing the Henry XX PREFACE chirography. So great was our amaze at the wraith-like Houdini, the lock- conquering break-away of those let- ters, that at first I felt, as their author has said, "there could be no more calendar, neither days, weeks, nor months." But time sped firmly on, not only months but years. And during those years, O. Henry's fame grew. Oh, how it grew ! The whole world knew this, but none knew it better, none knew it so deeply, as my mother and I and Daddy — especially Daddy! We read columns and pages in the papers about O. Henry, and always we finished with the wail, "What a pity about those letters !" It did seem as though an unmerciful amount of news about America's greatest humourist came our way. Friends, aware of my acquaintance with him, took pains to send me clippings. It xxi PREFACE finally became an unwritten law of our home to avoid the mention of his name, for the memory of those lost letters was too exasperating. Still more years flocked by. Then one day came a voice over the tele- phone: my father from his office shouting good news: "I have found the O. Henry letters!" It is not clear to me yet how he found them, or where; apparently in some nook as obscure in that safe as Lithopolis is on the map. Anyway, here they are, and I truly believe every reader will receive the same thrill they im- parted to us when first read aloud, long ago, in my grandmother's cosy front room. My acquaintance with O. Henry, as an occasional caller in our New York home, leaves the memory of a quiet, serious, hard-working author; one whom I felt was predestined to xxii PREFACE fame though he had slight regard for the author-craft. He was sincere in his statement of belief that "writing pieces for the printer isn't a man's work." His idea of a man's work was to get out in the world and estab- lish a great business — as John Wana- maker did. Several times I heard him speak with profound admiration of this merchant prince, whom he had never met. Equally sincere, I have good reason to believe, was his expressed indifference to music; he never asked me to play. I served tea and cakes when he called and we talked casually on any subject under the moon. I told him how his first letter reached me when I was up in the attic trying to imagine myself a poor, starving poet. I can hear yet his prompt and serious reply. "That is something you cannot im- agine. No one who has not known it XXlll PREFACE can imagine the misery of poverty." 0. Henry was so serious in saying this his voice became almost tragic. "Poverty is so terrible and so com- mon, we should all do more than we do — much more — to relieve it. We intend to, perhaps, but we don't do it. You ought to do more, so ought 1, right now. I ought to give fifty dollars, but I don't." Though mak- ing a social call, O. Henry was just then deeply solemn and earnest. Was he ever jocose in his talk as in his writings? I never found him so. About the only witticism I recall was the last time I saw him; the very last words I heard from him. As he stood at the door after saying good-bye he asked whether he might come again, real soon. I laughingly asked what he called "real soon." "What time do you have break- fast?" was the merry retort, xxiv PREFACE Shortly after this my mother and I went to Europe and it chanced that we never again saw O. Henry. But some time later he sent, through my father's office, his most recent book with an inscription highly typical and dashed off in his best freehand style: " To Miss Mabel W T agnails— with pleasant recollections of a certain little tea party where there were such nice little cakes and kind hospitality to a timid stranger. o. henry: 9 "A timid stranger" — somehow that describes him. To life itself and the whole world he carried the air of a timid stranger. Something in his manner made me think of William Watson's " World Strangeness": xxv PREFACE "Strange the world about me lies, Never yet familiar grown — Still disturbs me with surprise, Haunts me like a face half-known. I have never felt at home, Never wholly been at ease." So it seemed with O. Henry. Never quite at home — just a little out of place — and even in death But I must tell this very gently, and with somewhat of bated breath. We went to O. Henry's funeral, my mother and I. We had read in the papers of his passing, and had noted the hour and the place; a fitting place it was — the Little Church Around the Corner — the Church of the Strangers, as it sometimes is called. We sup- posed there would be a large crowd; probably cards of admission would be required. We had none, but we went intending to stand on the curb, xxvi PREFACE if need be, to pay our last deference to one of America's Immortals. But no crowd edged the curb; we saw a few carriages and a small group at the door that somehow was far from funereal in appearance. On entering the vestibule we were accosted with a question. So certain were we it must be a request for a card that for a moment we were uncomprehending — and good reason there was for our dismay. We had heard the strangest question ever worded, I believe, at chancel door since the cross of Christ stood over it: "Have you come for the wedding or the funeral?" Somehow it was a phrase that stabbed to the heart, though we soon understood, of course, that a mistake had been made in the time set for the two ceremonies. The wedding party was already there but it was decided xxvii PREFACE to hold the funeral first. So a few of us — astonishingly few, unbelievably few — sat forward in the dim nave while a brief — a very brief — little service was read over the still form of one whose tireless hand had penned pages of truth, humour, and philoso- phy that will live as long as the foun- dation stones of our Hall of Fame endure. One felt a hurried pulse through all the service, and as the cortege passed out a flower or two fell from the cas- ket and we knew that soon the bridal train would be brushing them aside. Out of place, it would seem, to the last, was O. Henry; with hardly time in the church to bury him. But his work, his books — there is place for them in four million homes of those who speak his tongue; more than four million copies of his books have been sold. xxvi 11 PREFACE Yes, there is room in the world for his work. And there is room in the hearts of the people for his fame to rest for ever. Mabel Wagnalls, XXIX LETTERS TO LITHOPOLIS FROM O. HENRY TO MABEL WAGNALLS LETTERS TO LITHOPOLIS O. HENRY TO MISS WAGNALLS New York, June 9 th, 1903. My dear Madam: THE "Cosmopolitan Maga- zine" forwarded to me yes- terday the little note you wrote on May 9th, in regard to some of the short stories I have been per- petrating upon the public. I do not know why they held your letter so long unless they thought it was a MS. submitted for publication, and finally decided to reject it — in which case I think they showed very poor taste and judgment. I'm glad to be able to tell you that I am a man, and neither a woman nor a wraith. Still I couldn't exactly LETTERS TO tell you why I'm glad, for there isn't anything nicer than a woman; and I have often thought, on certain occa- sions, that to be a wraith would be exceedingly jolly and convenient. When you were looking for "O. Henry " between the red covers of "Who's Who" I was probably be- tween two gray saddle blankets on a Texas prairie listening to the moon- light sonata of the coyotes. Since you have been so good as to speak nicely of my poor wares I will set down my autobiography. Here goes! Texas cowboy. Lazy. Thought writing stories might be easier than "busting" broncos. Came to New York one year ago to earn bread, butter, jam, and possibly asparagus that way. Last week loaned an editor $20. Please pardon the intrusion of LITHOPOLIS finances, but I regard the transaction as an imperishable bay. Very few- story writers have done that. Not many of them have the money. By the time they get it they know bet- ter. I think that is all that is of interest. I don't like to talk about /iterature. Did you notice that teentsy-weentsy little "1"? That's the way I spell it. I have much more respect for a man who brands cattle than for one who writes pieces for the printer. Don't you? It doesn't seem quite like a man's work. But then, it's quite often a man's work to collect a cheque from some publications. I was very glad to get your letter, even though it comes as to a wraith or an impersonality. Why? Well, down in Texas we are sort of friendly, you know, and when we see a man five miles off we holler at him "Hello, LETTERS TO Bill"! In New York the folks- well, — (I wish I could show you right here how the Mexicans shrug one shoulder). Your letter seemed to read like a faint voice out of the chaparral calling: "Hello, Bill, you old flop-eared wraith, how're they comm'?" In Texas the folks freeze to you; in New York they freeze you. Sabe? But I do not consider this a fault in New York. After one gets ac- quainted with the people they prove to be very agreeable and friendly. I have made a number of friends among the magazine men whom I like very much. What a pity it is that a downtrod- den scribbler can't manage to claim kinship with a publisher's family! 'Way down in Louisiana is where my "Henry " name came from. Can't you dig up an ancestor among the LITHOPOLIS old Southern aristocracy so we can be cousins? Do you know, Miss Wagnalls, what would be the proper procedure on this occasion if this happened to be Texas? I'll tell you. I'd get on my bronco and ride over to 15 th Street and holler "Hello, folkses!" And your pa would come out and say: "Light and hitch, stranger"; and you would kill a chicken for supper, and we would all talk about /iterature and the price of cattle. But as this is New York and not Texas I will only say I hope you will overlook the nonsense, and believe that I much appreciate your cheer- ing letter. There are one or two stories that I think you have not seen that I would like to have your opin- ion of if you would let me submit them to you some time. I think the judgment of a normal, intelligent LETTERS TO woman is superior to that of an editor in a great many instances. Sincerely yours, O. Henry. 47 West 24th Street . II O. HENRY TO MISS WAGNALLS New York, June 25, 1903. My dear Miss Wagnalls: Your pleasant little note from the metropolis Lithopolis was received and appreciated, although some envy was stirred up at the sight of your postmark. Just think! — you are out in the wilds of Ohio where you can pick daisies and winners at the county racetrack, wear kimonos and shoes large enough for you and run either for exercise or office as often as you please. Me — I'm in my 6 LITHOPOLIS garret nibbling at my crust (softened by a little dry Sauterne) and battling with the wolf at the door — (he's try- ing to get out — don't like it inside). Lemme see! Fairfield County — that's over across the "crick," isn't it, just this side of the woods? And Lithopolis — wait a minute — b'lieve I've heard of No, it wasn't the town — I guess it was a new $3 shoe or a trotting horse I was thinking of. (The whole paragraph was inspired by envy. I know it's peaceful & lovely & rural and restful out there. "Lost in Lithopolis; or Lolling among the Lotuses — not to mention the Lima Beans." 'Twould make a sum- mer drama that would snow "The Old Homestead " under — paper snow, of course.) Wait a minute — let me consult my notes Oh yes Thanks again for saying such kind things LETTERS TO about my stories. But let's talk about something else — writing little pieces for the printer man isn't much. There ought to be a law reserving literature for one-legged veterans and widows with nine children to write. Men ought to have the hard work to do — they ought to read the stuff. Er — lemme see Oh yes: — will I be wending my way back to Texas? (Please don't say "wend- ing"; it has such a footsore, stone- bruisy sound to it. Makes you think of railroad ties and things.) Well, I dunno. Sometimes I get tired of New York, and want to be where I can holler "Hello, Aunt Emily!" to the mayor's wife, and go back of the counter in the post office with a sort of Lithopolitan insouciance and free- dom. The other night I went up to the Madison Square post office and sat on the steps for two hours. Do 8 LITHOPOLIS you know, that postmaster never even came out and said "how's tricks/' much less joining in for a social chat. Everybody is so stiff in New York. But I hardly think I'll leave this year. I've got the editor men chasing me for stuff now, and I want to work 'em a while longer. Now, let's see again Oh yes — am I interested in music? Now, I think right here is where you are go- ing to repudiate your cousin, for I know all about why you asked the question. I can just see the dreamy look in your eyes as you slather Cho- pin and Bay Toven out of the piano keys. Am I interested in music? — Well, er — why, certainly — interested, but not implicated. I once was reputed to know something about printed music, but I acquired the dis- tinction by fraud. I gained it by being able to stand at the piano and 9 LETTERS TO turn the music exactly at the proper time for a certain young lady, who aggravated the ivory frequently. No one ever found out that she gave me the signal by moving her right ear, a singularly enviable accomplishment that she possessed. I may say that I had an ear for music, but it did not belong to me. I was going to send you a couple of old magazines with plot stories that I think would have interested you, but on looking I find that I haven't kept copies of them. I trespass so far on your good nature, though, to send 2 or 3 recent ones that you may not have noticed, as being afflicted with "O. H." stuff. I'll send you the July "McClure's" in a day or two (if I may) which contains an- other. I don't think that anybody but you reads them, and I don't want my audience to get away. I 10 LITHOPOLIS am thinking of getting out a nice red book with chewed-up edges pretty soon, and I was feeling really hopeful and enthusiastic at the thought that you might buy a copy and thus en- able it to appear in the list of most popular works sold in the Lithopolis department stores. But I reflected that as a member of a publisher's family you would be able to get one at wholesale rates, or maybe free, and the dream has faded. I ought to apologize for writing so much, but it is such a comfort to send out MS & know that it will not be returned. If you have time & sufficient charity I would like to hear some- thing more about Lithopolis. How are the Domineck chickens getting along, and has your grandmother had the fence painted this spring? Sincerely yours O. Henry, ii LETTERS TO III INTRODUCTORY NOTE The Dramatis Personae of the next letter requires some explaining and introducing. A play manager, glancing over the manuscript, would say there are too many characters. The list of names is indeed formidable and varied. They are here presented in the order of their appearance, as the up-to-date programs say: Mr. E. J. Wheeler. Don Hypolito Lopez Pomposo An- tonio Riccardo Doloroso Otto Oliver Obadiah Orlando Oscar Orville Osric 12 LITHOPOLIS Bart Kramer The Tombstone Lady Barefoot Boy Bouncer To begin at the beginning — con- sider the Top Liner, Mr. E. J. Wheeler. Why is he here? First of all he is not Mr. Wheeler — he is Dr. Wheeler (the Alma Mater kind). And he is not squat, square-faced, and distracted-looking; he is tall, dignified, and the epitome of poise. You can see his name, if you look for it, on the news-stands every month. (He is editor of a well-known maga- zine.) And you can hear his voice, if you go there, once a month, at the meetings of the Poetry Society, of which he is the Pioneer and Pilot. He is one of the literary friends I first turned to when seeking informa- tion about the creator of "Roads of Destiny." He it was, in fact, who 13 LETTERS TO suggested that I send a letter to the publisher. Dr. Wheeler was at one time associated with my father's firm. I know him well; so well, in- deed, that I know his faults, though no very close acquaintanceship is needed to discover his principal fail- ing. Dr. Wheeler is absentminded. It is not merely the absentminded- ness of poetic frenzy. He did not become thus distinctive, he was al- ways so, he was born so. The tales Mrs. Wheeler could tell — ! Indeed, she was to be envied as a conversa- tionalist, for she was steadily supplied with home-made, enlivening anec- dotes; the Doctor always enjoyed these (after they happened) as much as she did. But knowing this pro- pensity of his, I was in the habit of forestalling it, taking all due precau- tion against his forgetfulness when I approached him on any important LITHOPOLIS matter. It now occurred to me to let Dr. Wheeler know that I had un- earthed the elusive author I was trailing, and to have them meet each other. For this purpose I sent my new friend a letter of introduction to the old one, and expressed a hope that he would present the letter before Dr. Wheeler forgot he was coming. (I was mailing at the same time a note to the Doctor explaining his prospective caller.) These precautions on my part are what stirred up O. Henry's artistic instinct to the point of pictur- ing my absent-minded editor friend. The second name on the list, Don Hypolito Lopez Pomposo Antonio Riccardo Doloroso, I am in no way responsible for. But the following three, Otto, Oliver, and Obadiah, are my own — my very own — I invented them. I have mentioned before my keen interest in the initial standing *5 LETTERS TO sentry to that Henry name; that modest- violet sort of nom de plume that was, whether intended or no, a regular trumpet-call for attention so enticed and tantalized me that I did well to wait until my third letter before broaching the subject. I wasted no time in subtleties — just asked point-blank what the "O." stood for, and told him the only names I could think of were Oliver, Otto, and Obadiah. His reply was delightfully disconcerting. I could not charge him with ignoring my question; he must have given a full hour's work to the answer. But none the less, I was left in the air — with a subconscious feeling that someone had told me his front name was his own and would I kindly stay put in my grandmother's yard and not try to play in Madison Square. In a later letter I learned why O. Henry 16 LITHOPOLIS stubbed his pen and could not answer when I asked him what the "0."stood for. The plain fact is it stands for just nothing — exactly as it does in our arithmetics at school. O. Henry had never bothered to devise a name for that "O." It stands there alone, and will stand so for ever, an unwit- ting emblem of his fame — that en- during circle, the symbol of eternity. And now for Bart Kramer — ubi- quitous Bart — who owned the barn that was burnt to the ground. This much he knows and must well re- member, but that that fire was de- scribed to a lazy genius in New York who lit upon it as a subject for some clever pen strokes that eventually find themselves perpetuated in a book — all this will be news to Bart. It was a fine fire, lacking nothing in the way of spectacular effects — mid- 17 LETTERS TO night — church bells ringing — all Lith- opolis aroused, leaving its front doors open as it rushed to the blaze half- dressed. The roof was aflame when I arrived: we all brought utensils and formed a bucket brigade. Phil Oyler and Bart's brother Jake took turns at the pump, filling buckets, which were passed on from hand to hand to the blazing barn, where Bart himself was frantically emptying and handing them to another line of neigh- bours who passed them rapidly back to the panting pump. The fright- ened chickens and barking dogs added gloriously to the excitement. It did not last long and no one was hurt, and it certainly was, taken all in all, a perfectly lovely fire. In the course of my lively but brief correspondence with O. Henry, I learned to rely on the Tombstone 18 LITHOPOLIS Lady. Whenever Lithopolis seemed drained of incident and I found my pen lagging, I could always fall back upon Alta Jungkurth (she was mus- cular from her trade and could stand it). If your mind grasps at all the fact of a woman chiselling tomb- stones, you probably are picturing her as a middle-aged, frowsy-haired, masculine-appearing person, loud- voiced and assertive. Wipe out the picture — you will have to do it all over. Our Tombstone Lady was good-looking — yes, noticeably so — and soft-voiced, and at that time, I should say, full fifty years younger than the age at which according to Ecclesiastes she would have personal use for one of her own stones. She was tall, strong, and well-built, for her father had been a monumental man — so to speak. The music of the chisel (for the shop adjoined the *9 LETTERS TO home) had been her first lullaby, and stones — everlasting stones — tall, short, round, square, cuneiform, and oblong; white, gray, and granite-red — stones were her only toys. She had occasional pets, a cat for one, but he died. His name was Tom, and Alta gave vent to her grief by erecting a stone to his memory — it stands to this day in the yard: Here Lies TOM Alta Jungkurth's Cat This is the simple inscription that serves to immortalize Tom, and also to prove that Alta started early at her trade. In course of time she became her father's sole assistant. When other girls were learning to embroider and trace monograms on fancy work they sent to the county fair, Alta was tracing letters upon LITHOPOLIS enduring stone, destined for display upon the hilltop. She became ex- pert in marking off and chiselling all kinds of decorations — both the deep- cut and bas-relief. So what more natural than that she should take her father's place in the shop when he, at last, took his place in the grave- yard. There were orders unfilled, stones already contracted for, to say nothing of the one now needed to carry the name of Jungkurth. Alta bared her strong right arm and went to work in earnest. She even under- stood the "setting 'em up" — which is not nearly so jocose a matter as it sounds in O. Henry's letter. There is a whole lot to learn and master in this unusual tombstone trade — cer- tain law requirements about founda- tions, the underground depth of stone and cement. You hired day- labourers or the grave-digger for this 21 LETTERS TO work. But sometimes Alta pitched in and did most of it herself. Often have I seen her with swinging step returning from the graveyard bal- ancing upon her shoulder a huge clay- encrusted spade. Sometimes she was red in the face and furious because her helpers did not do as she told them. I saw her once, in a temper, fling her spade across the yard and declare that no man in the world seemed to know enough to dig a straight line or set a foundation. She had, on this particular day, been obliged to undo what the men had done and rebuild it all herself. No one could deny that Alta knew the tombstone business from the ground up and from the surface down; so expert was she that for miles around she was often sent for to chisel all day in some quiet graveyard at a stone already erected. Indeed, I so ad- 22 LITHOPOLIS mired her energy and unconscious hewing of new paths for woman's work that I wanted to write an article illustrated with pictures showing her at her unusual trade. This last sug- gestion shattered the project; to be pictured in her work clothes did not appeal to Alta. When she posed be- fore the camera it must be in her Sun- day best. With this dictum still clear in my memory, I look with relief upon the drawing O. Henry has made of her. I am sure it will not ruffle her feelings sartorially if she chances to see this book. M.W. O. HENRY TO MISS WAGNALLS New York, July 23rd, 1903. My dear Miss Wagnalls: Just for a change from the side view of the Lutheran Church and the "tombstone lady's" outfit across the 2 3 LETTERS street, will you let me have the floor for a few lines? Thank you very much for your card of introduction to Mr. Wheeler, although I haven't allowed myself the pleasure of calling upon him. You neglected to inform me whether his office is in the second story or the sixth, and I'm shy about bearding absent-minded editors who live too high above the sidewalk. From long practice I am able to land safely out of a second-story window, but when I scrape an acquaintance I don't want it to be a skyscraper. I have a gifted imagination in some things — here's my idea of Mr. Wheeler from your description. It represents him in the act of trying not to forget to ring the bell when people call on him who do not write articles on "Social Inconsistencies of Compound Hyperrnatrophic Astig- matism." You will notice that my 24 53 LETTERS reluctance to beard editors has led me to give Mr. Wheeler a perfectly smooth face. Art is not Art when it is not consistent. When you said "a book about the operas" did you mean a book you wrote? Of course I would like to read it. First time the wagon goes to town let the book come along, will you? Down in Texas at one time I belonged to a first rate musical asso- ciation (Amateur). We toured the State with Pinafore & the Bohemian Girl & the Black Mantles & the Mikado & the "Chimes" &c. Me? Oh, in the chorus, of course. Except once. Sang the part of Don Hypo- lito Lopez Pomposo Antonio Riccardo Doloroso in the Black Mantles. I put in the next 2 years living it down, & finally succeeded. Wait a minute 'till I look at that little 2x4 letter of yours. O! 26 « I! i I o is 5 CO *3