John De Graffenreid Atwood ate of the lotus, root, stem, and flower. The tropics gobbled him up. He plunged enthusiastically into his work, which was to try to forget Rosine. Now, they who dine on the lotus rarely consume it plain. There is a sauce ~au diable~ that goes with it; and the distillers are […]

Within a week a suitable building had been secured in the Calle Grande, and Mr. Hemstetter’s stock of shoes arranged upon their shelves. The rent of the store was moderate; and the stock made a fine showing of neat white boxes, attractively displayed. Johnny’s friends stood by him loyally. On the first day Keogh strolled […]

A two-inch stub of a blue pencil was the wand with which Keogh performed the preliminary acts of his magic. So, with this he covered paper with diagrams and figures while he waited for the United States of America to send down to Coralio a successor to Atwood, resigned. The new scheme that his mind […]

There is little consecutiveness along the Spanish Main. Things happen there intermittently. Even Time seems hang his scythe daily on the branch of an orange tree while he takes a siesta and a cigarette. After the ineffectual revolt against the administration of President Losada, the country settled again into quiet toleration of the abuses with […]

It has been indicated that disaffection followed the elevation of Losada to the presidency. This feeling continued to grow. Throughout the entire republic there seemed to be a spirit of silent, sullen discontent. Even the old Liberal party to which Goodwin, Zavalla and other patriots had lent their aid was disappointed. Losada had failed to […]

There remains three duties to be performed before the curtain falls upon the patched comedy. Two have been promised: the third is no less obligatory. It was set forth in the program of this tropic vaudeville that it would be made known why Shorty 0’Day, of the Columbia Detective Agency, lost his position. Also that […]

Vaudeville is intrinsically episodic and discontinuous. Its audiences do not demand denouements. Sufficient unto each “turn” is the evil thereof. No one cares how many romances the singing comedienne may have had if she can capably sustain the limelight and a high note or two. The audiences reck not if the performing dogs get to […]

[This appeared in The Rolling Stone shortly before it “suspended publication” never to resume.] The person who sweeps the office, translates letters from foreign countries, deciphers communications from graduates of business colleges, and does most of the writing for this paper, has been confined for the past two weeks to the under side of a […]

From The Rolling Stone, Saturday, March 5, 1894. Whenever you visit Austin you should by all means go to see the General Land Office. As you pass up the avenue you turn sharp round the corner of the court house, and on a steep hill before you you see a medieval castle. You think of […]

[This story was sent to Dr. Beall of Greensboro, N. C., in a letter in 1883, and so is one of O. Henry’s earliest attempts at writing.] I Lord Oakhurst lay dying in the oak chamber in the eastern wing of Oakhurst Castle. Through the open window in the calm of the summer evening, came […]

My Dear Mr. Steger: My idea is to write the story of a man–an individual, not a type–but a man who, at the same time, I want to represent a “human nature type,” if such a person could exist. The story will teach no lesson, inculcate no moral, advance no theory. I want it to […]

“I push my boat among the reeds; I sit and stare about; Queer slimy things crawl through the weeds Put to a sullen rout. I paddle under cypress trees; All fearfully I peer Through oozy channels when the breeze Comes rustling at my ear. “The long moss hangs perpetually; Gray scalps of buried years; Blue […]

In the hush of the drowsy afternoon, When the very wind on the breast of June Lies settled, and hot white tracery Of the shattered sunlight filters free. Through the unstinted leaves to the pied cool sward; On a dead tree branch sings the saddest bard Of the birds that be; ‘Tis the lone Pewee. […]

[From The Rolling Stone, June 23, 1891.] Can you inform me where I can buy an interest in a newspaper of some kind? I have some money and would be glad to invest it in something of the sort, if some one would allow me to put in my capital against his experience. COLLEGE GRADUATE. […]

This is the Mexican Don Jose Calderon One of God’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 […]

I’m thinking to-night of the old farm, Ned, And my heart is heavy and sad As I think of the days that by have fled Since I was a little lad. There rises before me each spot I know Of the old home in the dell, The fields, and woods, and meadows below That memory […]

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 prickly heat, Wrote variations of the seaside joke We all do know and always loved so well, And of […]

The lullaby boy to the same old tune Who abandons his drum and toys For the purpose of dying in early June Is the kind the public enjoys. But, just for a change, please sing us a song, Of the sore-toed boy that’s fly, And freckled and mean, and ugly, and bad, And positively will […]

Lives of great men all remind us Rose is red and violet’s blue; Johnny’s got his gun behind us ‘Cause the lamb loved Mary too. –Robert Burns’ “Hocht Time in the aud Town.” I’d rather write this, as bad as it is Than be Will Shakespeare’s shade; I’d rather be known as an F. F. […]

Just now when the whitening blossoms flare On the apple trees and the growing grass Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air; With my lighted pipe and well-filled glass Of the old farm I am dreaming, And softly smiling, seeming To see the bright sun beaming Upon the old home farm. And when […]