If you see anybody about to start to Texas to live, especially to this part, if you will take your scalpyouler and sever the jugular vein, cut the brachiopod artery and hamstring him, after he knows what you have done for him he will rise and call you blessed.  This country is a silent but eloquent refutation of Bob Ingersoll’s theory:  a man here gets prematurely insane, melancholy and unreliable and finally dies of lead poisoning, in his boots, while in a good old land like Greensboro a man can die, as they do every day, with all the benefits of the clergy.

W. S. PORTER

AUSTIN, Texas, April 21, 1885.

Dear Dave:  I take my pen in hand to let you know that I am well, and hope these few lines will find you as well as can be expected.

I carried out your parting injunction of a floral nature with all the solemnity and sacredness that I would have bestowed upon a dying man’s last request.  Promptly at half-past three I repaired to the robbers’ den, commonly known as Radams Horticultural and Vegetable Emporium, and secured the high-priced offerings, according to promise.  I asked if the bouquets were ready, and the polite but piratical gentleman in charge pointed proudly to two objects on the counter reposing in a couple of vases, and said they were.

I then told him I feared there was some mistake, as no buttonhole bouquets had been ordered, but he insisted on his former declaration, and so I brought them away and sent them to their respective destinations.

I thought it a pity to spoil a good deck of cards by taking out only one, so I bundled up the whole deck, and inserted them in the bouquet, but finally concluded it would not be right to violet (JOKE) my promise and I rose (JOKE) superior to such a mean trick and sent only one as directed.

I have a holiday to-day, as it is San Jacinto day.  Thermopylae had its messenger of defeat, but the Alamo had none.  Mr. President and fellow citizens, those glorious heroes who fell for their country on the bloody field of San Jacinto, etc.

There is a bazaar to-night in the representatives’ hall.  You people out in Colorado don’t know anything.  A bazaar is cedar and tacks and girls and raw-cake and step-ladders and Austin Grays and a bass solo by Bill Stacy, and net profits $2.65.

Albert has got his new uniform and Alf Menille is in town, and tile store needs the “fine Italian hand” of the bookkeeper very much, besides some of his plain Anglo-Saxon conversation.

Was interviewed yesterday by Gen’l Smith, Clay’s father.  He wants Jim S. and me to represent a manufactory in Jeff.  City:  Convict labor.  Says parties in Galveston and Houston are making good thing of it.  Have taken him up.  Hope to be at work soon.  Glad, by jingo!  Shake.  What’ll you have?  Claret and sugar?  Better come home.  Colorado no good.

Strange thing happened in Episcopal Church Sunday.  Big crowd.  Choir had sung jolly tune and preacher come from behind scenes.  Everything quiet.  Suddenly fellow comes down aisle.  Late.  Everybody looks.  Disappointment.  It is a stranger.  Jones and I didn’t go.  Service proceeds.