Rolling Stones Part 37

He who, when torrid Summer's sickly glare Beat down upon the city's parched walls, Sat him within a room scarce 8 by 9, And, with tongue hanging out and panting breath, Perspiring, pierced by pangs of p.r.i.c.kly heat, Wrote variations of the seaside joke We all do know and always loved so well, And of cool breezes and sweet girls that lay In shady nooks, and pleasant windy coves Anon Will in that self-same room, with tattered quilt Wrapped round him, and blue stiffening hands, All s.h.i.+vering, fireless, pinched by winter's blasts, Will hale us forth upon the rounds once more, So that we may expect it not in vain, The joke of how with curses deep and coa.r.s.e Papa puts up the pipe of parlor stove.

So ye Who greet with tears this olden favorite, Drop one for him who, though he strives to please Must write about the things he never sees.

TAMALES

This is the Mexican Don Jose Calderon One of G.o.d's countrymen.

Land of the buzzard.

Cheap silver dollar, and Cacti and murderers.

Why has he left his land Land of the lazy man, Land of the pulque Land of the bull fight, Fleas and revolution.

This is the reason, Hark to the wherefore; Listen and tremble.

One of his ancestors, Ancient and garlicky, Probably grandfather, Died with his boots on.

Killed by the Texans, Texans with big guns, At San Jacinto.

Died without benefit Of priest or clergy; Died full of minie b.a.l.l.s, Mescal and pepper.

Don Jose Calderon Heard of the tragedy.

Heard of it, thought of it, Vowed a deep vengeance; Vowed retribution On the Americans, Murderous gringos, Especially Texans.

"Valga me Dios! que Ladrones, diablos, Matadores, mentidores, Caraccos y perros, Voy a matarles, Con solos mis manos, Toditas sin falta."

Thus swore the Hidalgo Don Jose Calderon.

He hied him to Austin.

Bought him a basket, A barrel of pepper, And another of garlic; Also a rope he bought.

That was his stock in trade; Nothing else had he.

Nor was he rated in Dun or in Bradstreet, Though he meant business, Don Jose Calderon, Champion of Mexico, Don Jose Calderon, Seeker of vengeance.

With his stout lariat, Then he caught swiftly Tomcats and puppy dogs, Caught them and cooked them, Don Jose Calderon, Vower of vengeance.

Now on the sidewalk Sits the avenger Selling Tamales to Innocent purchasers.

Dire is thy vengeance, Oh, Jose Calderon, Pitiless Nemesis Fearful Redresser Of the wrongs done to thy Sainted grandfather.

Now the doomed Texans, Rashly hilarious, Buy of the deadly wares, Buy and devour.

Rounders at midnight, Citizens solid, Bankers and newsboys, Bootblacks and preachers, Rashly importunate, Courting destruction.

Buy and devour.

Beautiful maidens Buy and devour, Gentle society youths Buy and devour.

Buy and devour This thing called Tamale; Made of rat terrier, Spitz dog and poodle.

Maltese cat, boarding house Steak and red pepper.

Garlic and tallow, Corn meal and shucks.

Buy without shame Sit on store steps and eat, Stand on the street and eat, Ride on the cars and eat, Strewing the shucks around Over creation.

Dire is thy vengeance, Don Jose Calderon.

For the slight thing we did Killing thy grandfather.

What boots it if we killed Only one greaser, Don Jose Calderon?

This is your deep revenge, You have greased all of us, Greased a whole nation With your Tamales, Don Jose Calderon.

Santos Esperiton, Vincente Camillo, Quitana de Rios, De Rosa y Ribera.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A letter to his daughter Margaret.]

LETTERS

[Letter to Mr. Gilman Hall, O. Henry's friend and a.s.sociate Editor of _Everybody's Magazine_.]

"the Callie"--

Excavation Road-- Sundy.

my dear mr. hall:

in your october E'bodys' i read a story in which i noticed some sentences as follows:

"Day in, day out, day in, day out, day in, day out, day in, day out, day in, day out, it had rained, rained, and rained and rained & rained & rained & rained & rained till the mountains loomed like a chunk of rooined velvet."

And the other one was: "i don't keer whether you are any good or not,"

she cried. "You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive!

You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive!

You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive!

You're alive! You're alive!"

I thought she would never stop saying it, on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on. "You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're ALIVE!

"You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive! You're alive!

You're alive! You're alive! You're ALIVE!

"YOU'RE ALIVE!"

Say, bill; do you get this at a rate, or does every word go?

i want to know, because if the latter is right i'm going to interduce in compositions some histerical personages that will loom up large as repeeters when the words are counted up at the polls.

Yours truly

O. henry 28 West 26th St., West of broadway

Mr. hall, part editor of everybody's.

KYNTOEKNEEYOUGH RANCH, November 31, 1883.

[Letter to Mrs. Hall, a friend back in North Carolina.