It’s mighty nice of you to say you would be able to stand seeing me again if I should come to Marsville. I shore would love to ride up and holler “Hello!” over the fence. Lemme see! Trip to Europe—automobiles—steam yacht—Rockefeller’s money—no, none of those things sound half as good. But lawsy me! I don’t know when I shall ever drap down your way.
I’ve about decided to go up along the Maine coast fishing with an editor man. I live in a room or two as big as a barn on Waverly Place. I’m so lazy and cool and contented there all by myself with my books and things that I haven’t been away from town in two summers.
Now, I’m not going to talk about myself any more. I’ve been in New York about four years, and I guess I’ve “made good,” for everything I write is engaged long before it is written.
I’ve been puzzling over your signature. It’s the same old name you had when you wore your hair in a plait; and I have two very good reasons for thinking it ought to be different. One is that somebody wrote me several years ago that you had married; and the other is that it isn’t possible—it isn’t possible—that the young men of our old state could be so unappreciative as to have let you escape. But if you are married, please, oh, please get a divorce at once, so you can be “Miss Carrie” again.
I am trusting to your good nature to accept a little book of mine that came out last winter. You don’t have to read it, you know. It’s just the thing to prop the kitchen door when the wind is in the east.
And, Miss Carrie, some day when you ain’t real busy won’t you sit at your desk where you keep those antiquated stories, and write to me? I’d be so pleased to hear something about what the years have done for you, and what you think about when the tree frogs begin to holler in the evenings. Got any tree frogs up there?
Do this, and I’ll promise to say “Caroline” next time.
Let me say once more how good it was to hear from you, and that I am, yours sincerely,
Robert Haralson.
September 28th.