Grandview, Mo. January 25, 1912
Dear Bessie:
This is the third letter I have started to you since Tuesday night. You know I took a fool notion not to go over to Aunt Ella's after all and went back to K.C. I figured that I had rather lose an hour's sleep while I was up already than to get up to do it. That sounds like a Dutch Jew wrote it. I was talking to Abie Viner's pa this morning and that's the reason. Abie and his pa belong to the Scottish Rite. They are in the chandelier business. I never saw so many varieties nor such pretty ones as the old man showed me this morning. His store is at 1110 McGee, right back of the Empress. Abie has been married seven years. Think of it. The Scottish Rite has done its best to make a man of me, but they had such a grade of material to start with that they did a poor job I fear. It is the most impressive ceremony I ever saw or read of. If a man doesn't try to be better after seeing it, he has a screw loose somewhere.
I simply can't get "I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls" of my mind. I think it's the prettiest waltz song of the whole bunch. Mary has gone dippy over "Day Dreams" and won't let me have the piano to play it ‘cause she wants to herself. I wrote you the craziest letter after I got to K.C. Tuesday evening you would ever read. I didn't have the nerve to send it next day. Did you know you made a most excellent joke Sunday evening and neither of us laughed? I had asked you if you weren't tired of my hanging around so long at a time. You of course said I was who would get tired and I said I would never get tired. Then you, thinking I suppose that something was coming sure enough, grabbed the weather and said, "Oh heck I wish I had some rubber boots!" And we never laughed. I'm glad, for I meant it. You shouldn't have been afraid of my getting slushy or proposing until I can urge you to come to as good a home as you have already. I don't think any man should expect a girl to go to a less comfortable home than she's used to. I'd just like to be rich for two reasons. First to pay my debts and give Mamma a fine house to live in, and second and greatest, I'd make love to you so hard you'd either have to say yes or knock me on the head. Still, if I thought you cared a little I'd double my efforts to amount to something and maybe would succeed. I wouldn't ask you to marry me if I didn't. Say, now ain't it awful -I have already burned up two perfectly good sheets of stationery to keep from saying that, but this one goes. If you don't like that part skip it, which you can't because you won't know it's there. Well, it's just what I think and I mean every word of it.
Won't it be fine if Miss Dicie has her dinner and her party on the same Saturday? I am just dying to see Mrs. Polly and that baby. (Kid, I almost said, but I believe you said it was a lady.)
I am afraid that I won't get to take you to hear DePachmann because he comes on the first Friday in the month. Save me the date as close as you can though, and if I can get away and you care to hear him, we will.
Mamma is raising sand with me to come to dinner, and I believe she said there was caramel custard, or was going to be, this evening so I'll have to stop. I guess you'll be glad anyway for I'll frankly admit that this is a bum excuse for a letter, but I hope you'll send one in return. I'll be highly pleased with any kind on any kind of paper. So just send me a letter.
Sincerely, Harry