O'Henry - Rolling Stones

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What day did Christmas come on in the year 1847?

CONSTANT READER

The 25th of December.

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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.

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

R.

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

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When do the Texas game laws go into effect?

HUNTER.

When you sit down at the table.

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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.

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Name in order the three best newspapers in Texas.

ADVERTISER.

Well, the Galveston News runs about second, and the San Antonio Express third. Let us hear from you again.

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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.

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

Eli Perkins.

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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 of The Rolling Stone, in the Houston Post's Postscripts 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 June

Lies settled, and hot white tracery

Of the shattered sunlight filters free.

Through the unstinted leaves to the pied cool sward;

On a dead tree branch sings the saddest bard

Of the birds that be;

'Tis the lone Pewee.

Its note is a sob, and its note is pitched

In a single key, like a soul bewitched

To a mournful minstrelsy.

"Pewee, Pewee," doth it ever cry;

A sad, sweet minor threnody

That threads the aisles of the dim hot grove

Like a tale of a wrong or a vanished love;

And the fancy comes that the wee dun bird

Perchance was a maid, and her heart was stirred

By some lover's rhyme

In a golden time,

And broke when the world turned false and cold;

And her dreams grew dark and her faith grew cold

In some fairy far-off clime.

And her soul crept into the Pewee's breast;

And forever she cries with a strange unrest

For 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 lies

Steeped in the languorous still sunshine,

Rapt, to the leaf and the bough rind the vine

Of 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 down

And 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 sleep

And flat on the floor he lay;

And the last he heard was the great man's words,

"I have nothing at all to say."

"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 peer

Through oozy channels when the breeze

Comes 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 crane

Strikes at his prey; I turn to fly,

At drops of sudden rain.

"In every little cry of bird

I hear a tracking shout;

From every sodden leaf that's stirred

I see a face frown out;

My soul shakes when the water rat

Cowed by the blue snake flies;

Black knots from tree holes glimmer at

Me with accusive eyes.

"Through all the murky silence rings

A cry not born of earth;

An endless, deep, unechoing thing

That owns not human birth.

I see no colors in the sky

Save red, as blood is red;

I pray to God to still that cry

From pallid lips and dead.

"One spot in all that stagnant waste

I shun as moles shun light,

And turn my prow to make all haste

To fly before the night.

A poisonous mound hid from the sun,

Where crabs hold revelry;

Where eels and fishes feed upon

The 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 note

From out the awful groves.

"I shout with laughter through the night:

I rage in greatest glee;

My fears all vanish with the light

Oh! 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 all

These 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 editor

A 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 up

To a king full on eights.

Just now when the whitening blossoms flare

On the apple trees and the growing grass

Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air;

With my lighted pipe and well-filled glass

Of the old farm I am dreaming,

And softly smiling, seeming