80 Waverly Place,
September 25th.
My Dear “Miss Carrie”:
Just once, if I may—and then I will try to think of you as Caroline.
I was gladder to get your little note than the biggest editor’s check I ever saw. Seems to me (after trying very hard) I do remember a small “sassy” girl that used to live next door.
When you ask if I remember you, it reminds me of a story told of Congressman John Allen of Mississipi—(never could spell Mississip)—is that right? A lady approached him in Washington one day and held out her hand. “Now confess, Mr. Allen,” she said, “that you’ve forgotten all about me.”
He had; he knew her face, but his memory wouldn’t serve him any further. But, with a low bow, he replied: “Madam, I’ve made it the business of my life to try to forget you.”
See?—as we New Yorkers say.
Well, well, how time does fly! as the little boy said when his teacher told him Rome was founded in 684 B. C. I never expected anything so nice and jolly as to hear from you. It’s like finding a five-dollar bill in an old vest pocket.
Isn’t it funny that I was thinking of you a little while last week? I had a map, looking all about on it trying to decide on somewhere to go for a few weeks to get away from the city. Mountains for me always! So my eye naturally ran down the Blue Ridge chain. Here’s the latest picture of the distinguished Mr. Haralson. Does it look anything like the moonstruck little shrimp that used to hang around and bother you so much? I can remember what an awkward, bashful, sentimental, ugly, uninteresting nuisance I was then. No wonder I couldn’t make any impression on you! I’ve improved a good deal since. In fact, it seems to me that the older I grow the better looking and more fascinating I become. Of course it doesn’t seem just right for me to say so, but if I didn’t tell you you mightn’t ever find it out.
In those days I took life mighty seriously and sentimentally: that’s why I always went about looking like a monkey with the toothache; but in after years I learned that life is only a jolly good comedy for the most part, and I began to enjoy it. I believe I’m about five years younger than I was the last time you saw me—when you left the depot in Roseboro for Marsville. Ernest Cold rode up with you on the train; and I haven’t forgiven him for it yet.