His Answer to Her Letter

Being asked by an intimate party,     Which the same I would term as a friend,     Though his health it were vain to call hearty,     Since the mind to deceit it might lend;     For his arm it was broken quite recent,     And theres something gone wrong with his lung,     Which is why it is proper and decent     I should write what he runs off his tongue.     First, he says, Miss, hes read through your letter     To the end,    and the end came too soon;     That a slight illness kept him your debtor,     (Which for weeks he was wild as a loon);     That his spirits are buoyant as yours is;     That with you, Miss, he challenges Fate,     (Which the language that invalid uses     At times it were vain to relate).     And he says that the mountains are fairer     For once being held in your thought;     That each rock holds a wealth that is rarer     Than ever by gold-seeker sought.     (Which are words he would put in these pages,     By a party not given to guile;     Though the claim not, at date, paying wages,     Might produce in the sinful a smile.)     He remembers the ball at the Ferry,     And the ride, and the gate, and the vow,     And the rose that you gave him,    that very     Same rose he is treasuring now.     (Which his blanket hes kicked on his trunk, Miss,     And insists on his legs being free     And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,     Is frequent and painful and free.)     He hopes you are wearing no willows,     But are happy and gay all the while;     That he knows    (which this dodging of pillows     Imparts but small ease to the style,     And the same you will pardon)    he knows, Miss,     That, though parted by many a mile,     Yet, were he lying under the snows, Miss,     Theyd melt into tears at your smile.     And youll still think of him in your pleasures,     In your brief twilight dreams of the past;     In this green laurel spray that he treasures,     It was plucked where your parting was last;     In this specimen,    but a small trifle,     It will do for a pin for your shawl.     (Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle,     Was his last weeks clean up,    and his all.)     Hes asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss,     Were it not that I scorn to deny     That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss,     In view that his fever was high;     But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive.     And now, my respects, Miss, to you;     Which my language, although comprehensive,     Might seem to be freedom, is true.     For I have a small favor to ask you,     As concerns a bull-pup, and the same,     If the duty would not overtask you,     You would please to procure for me, game;     And send per express to the Flat, Miss,     For they say York is famed for the breed,     Which, though words of deceit may be that, Miss,     Ill trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.     P.S.    Which this same interfering     Into other folks way I despise;     Yet if it so be I was hearing     That its just empty pockets as lies     Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers     That, having no family claims,     Heres my pile, which its six hundred dollars,     As is yoURS, with respects,                              TRUTHFUL JAMES.