I send the ghost of a magnolia up to your window.
Yours as ever,
Bob.
April 4th.
I find a P.S. from Bobby this afternoon and the ghost of a magnolia that failed to get in the other letter.
Ma Chérie Mlle. Carrie:
Here’s a magnolia.
I know you believe I am “without the pale” and “N. G.,” but I write again because I do not believe that I am.
If you come to N. Y. this spring I reckon as how you won’t want to see me because you think I am short on etiquette. All right for youse! I’ll watch all the rubberneck coaches, and when I see a little pink-cheeked girl in a straw hat with daisies on it and a white dress with a pink sash, chewing sweetgum—(for shame, Bobby)—and making eyes at the Brooklyn Bridge, I’ll know who it is, and look at you all I please.
So, au revoir, Miss Howard. I am still yours sincerely.
R. H.