Grandview, Mo.
November 14, 1911
Dear Bessie:
I made a threat to send you two full sheets when I wrote last. I doubt my ability to do it now. Anyway you'd better be glad I can't. Some people can write oh so entertainingly but I am not one of them. My thoughts arrive in jerks if they ever arrive. Jerks cannot be put into very excellent English.
When your letters come they always run along so smoothly that I wonder how you do it. I can't.
I got home Monday afternoon and found everyone holding down a good seat around the fire. Sometimes you can do as you please on a farm. Except about 5:00 a.m. Then I never do as I please. My dear pap can never see why anyone should want to sleep after that unearthly hour. It doesn't make so much difference in summer but winter it's as dark as Egypt, and on a cold morning the bed is a mighty good place. I played one on him Friday night. Mary and I went down to Aunt Emma's to supper (dinner she said) and I came down on the midnight train. I took everything, even my hat, upstairs. Next morning I came down after breakfast and went out to the field to shuck corn and papa was as surprised as I wanted him to be. Sunday morning and Monday he went up to be sure I was not present.
I managed to get a couple of seats for Mr. Whiteside yesterday morning, for Saturday night. So be sure and don't forget it. If press notices amount to anything I guess he'll be worth seeing. We ought to take out a little fire insurance though because he's a hoodoo on fires. He was at the Coates when it went up. The Auditorium caught fire once when he was there and he was also present at several fires in adjoining towns. They always put an extra fire guard when he comes.
I forgot to tell you how much I am enjoying those books you lent me. The Indian story was great. I have just started Mary Johnston's and am saving My Lady of Doubt for a climax. I am going to bring the first ones you let me have home Saturday evening if I have time to work my brains before the train goes. Generally I have just five minutes less than time to get the train, and leave in such a rush that memory does not exist at the time.
I have been to Belton and back since I wrote that last sentence. Papa wanted to go look at some hogs up on Mr. Johnson's place. We arrived there before the owner and found several pigs gone to the happy hunting ground. We did not buy any of those still on four legs because our own are healthy and it would be pocketbook suicide to bring home sick ones.
People who are fond of prating about exhilarating (I looked in the spelling book for it) drives in the autumn air should have had one this morning in the spring wagon. The wind blew about fifty miles an hour from the southwest while we were going up and switched to the northwest coming back. My fingers are as stiff as ten-penny nails yet. Really though it is a fine day. A person can sit by the fire and admire the beauties of nature all right. I suppose these nature fakers use limousines with oil heaters to do their riding in. if they had to face a gale in a spring wagon it would soon dampen some of their enthusiasm.
Vivian and his frau took Mamma and went to Belton this afternoon to buy a cooking stove. They will be ready to move in when they get back with it. I told him he should have bought as important a piece of furniture as that the very first thing. A well-fed person is generally a happy one. I once read a story about a band of socialist who were going to buy an island for ideal purposes. The crew of the ship on which they sailed became socialists and the dear idealists had to go to work and sail the ship or starve in mid-ocean. It knocked their theories into a cocked hat. Parlor talk and bedrock-work or starve are different propositions.
I bet you think I am working awful hard to make a letter out of this. I am. But I am doing it to get one from you. Please remember that.
I shall see you Saturday evening about seven-thirty. I guess that will be soon enough to start because we have aisle seats unless the salesman prevaricated. So if we arrive at the end of the overture we won't be walked over.
I should be very glad to go out to Mr. Pritchet's (is that how you spell him?) sometime. When I get my black ponies broken I am going to come down overland and take you a drive if you'll go behind as slow a thing as a horse. That will probably be next summer. I am about to run over so I'd better quit. You owe me a letter.
Most sincerely, Harry