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Page 68
DEAR CARLEY:
I'm surely glad for a good excuse to write you.
Once in a blue moon I get a letter, and today Hutter brought me one from a
soldier pard of mine who was with me in the Argonne. His name is Virgil
Rust--queer name, don't you think?--and he's from Wisconsin. Just a rough-
diamond sort of chap, but fairly well educated. He and I were in some
pretty hot places, and it was he who pulled me out of a shell crater. I'd
"gone west" sure then if it hadn't been for Rust.
Well, he did all sorts of big things during the war. Was down several times
with wounds. He liked to fight and he was a holy terror. We all thought
he'd get medals and promotion. But he didn't get either. These much-desired
things did not always go where they were best deserved.
Rust is now lying in a hospital in Bedford Park. His letter is pretty blue.
All he says about why he's there is that he's knocked out. But he wrote a
heap about his girl. It seems he was in love with a girl in his home town--
a pretty, big-eyed lass whose picture I've seen--and while he was overseas
she married one of the chaps who got out of fighting. Evidently Rust is
deeply hurt. He wrote: "I'd not care so . . . if she'd thrown me down to
marry an old man or a boy who couldn't have gone to war." You see, Carley,
service men feel queer about that sort of thing. It's something we got over
there, and none of us will ever outlive it. Now, the point of this is that
I am asking you to go see Rust, and cheer him up, and do what you can for
the poor devil. It's a good deal to ask of you, I know, especially as Rust
saw your picture many a time and knows you were my girl. But you needn't
tell him that you--we couldn't make a go of it.
And, as I am writing this to you, I see no reason why I shouldn't go on in
behalf of myself.
The fact is, Carley, I miss writing to you more than I miss anything of my
old life. I'll bet you have a trunkful of letters from me--unless you've
destroyed them. I'm not going to say how I miss your letters. But I will
say you wrote the most charming and fascinating letters of anyone I ever
knew, quite aside from any sentiment. You knew, of course, that I had no
other girl correspondent. Well, I got along fairly well before you came
West, but I'd be an awful liar if I denied I didn't get lonely for you and
your letters. It's different now that you've been to Oak Creek. I'm alone
most of the time and I dream a lot, and I'm afraid I see you here in my
cabin, and along the brook, and under the pines, and riding Calico--which
you came to do well--and on my hogpen fence--and, oh, everywhere! I don't
want you to think I'm down in the mouth, for I'm not. I'll take my
medicine. But, Carley, you spoiled me, and I miss hearing from you, and I
don't see why it wouldn't be all right for you to send me a friendly letter
occasionally.
It is autumn now. I wish you could see Arizona canyons in their gorgeous
colors. We have had frost right along and the mornings are great. There's a
broad zigzag belt of gold halfway up the San Francisco peaks, and that is
the aspen thickets taking on their fall coat. Here in the canyon you'd
think there was blazing fire everywhere. The vines and the maples are red,
scarlet, carmine, cerise, magenta, all the hues of flame. The oak leaves
are turning russet gold, and the sycamores are yellow green. Up on the
desert the other day I rode across a patch of asters, lilac and lavender,
almost purple. I had to get off and pluck a handful. And then what do you
think? I dug up the whole bunch, roots and all, and planted them on the
sunny side of my cabin. I rather guess your love of flowers engendered this
remarkable susceptibility in me.
I'm home early most every afternoon now, and I like the couple of hours
loafing around. Guess it's bad for me, though. You know I seldom hunt, and
the trout in the pool here are so tame now they'll almost eat out of my
hand. I haven't the heart to fish for them. The squirrels, too, have grown
tame and friendly. There's a red squirrel that climbs up on my table. And
there's a chipmunk who lives in my cabin and runs over my bed. I've a new
pet--the little pig you christened Pinky. After he had the wonderful good
fortune to be caressed and named by you I couldn't think of letting him
grow up in an ordinary piglike manner. So I fetched him home. My dog, Moze,
was jealous at first and did not like this intrusion, but now they are good
friends and sleep together. Flo has a kitten she's going to give me, and
then, as Hutter says, I'll be "Jake."
My occupation during these leisure hours perhaps would strike my old
friends East as idle, silly, mawkish. But I believe you will understand me.
I have the pleasure of doing nothing, and of catching now and then a
glimpse of supreme joy in the strange state of thinking nothing. Tennyson
came close to this in his "Lotus Eaters." Only to see--only to feel is
enough!
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