Morgan 2: Harold Morgan, April 11, 1913

Hunt Ariz.

April 11 1913

Dear Jessie:– It has been two days since I rec’d your letter. Do you think I was pleased well that don’t half tell it. It was almost like being with you, that is for the talking part, but for the other. Oh! my it was a poor excuse. But I will try and get along if you will only write.

Say little girl I was pleased to hear of that auto ride wish you could have one every day especially if it was with a married man with his wife along. The way I remember we had some pretty good rides ourselves. But I mustn’t remember anything like that now, for I’m terribly afraid of the lonesomes. But when I get with you I’ll live over every hour every minute that I’ve spent with you, every time I’ve held you in my arms and kissed you. I mustn’t think of it now or I can’t write.

Well little girl I’m alone. Lin has gone to Holbrook and left so many many things for a “green hand” to do that really I’m most frightfully busy.

But you know when one gets in the state I’m in it’s really good for them to be busy and work hard. One feels so much happier when they work. At such a time one has memories of the past just often enough to make them think good.

Well here I am giving you a little philosophy which you no doubt have known for years and years, forgive me dear won’t you.

Nothing unusual has happened in the city as yet only Harris Greer paid us a call this evening. He says St. Johns is the deadest town he ever saw and of course he ought to know being a man of wide acquaintance. I’ll venture a guess myself it’s anything but lively.

And so you’ve read everything in sight. Now that “you haven’t anything to do” I see no reason to hinder you from writting [sic] to me oftener, perhaps I wouldn’t get to answer them all but that hadn’t ought to make any difference. You know that I would if I could. But no matter how often you wrote if it was just once a month I couldn’t help but think just as much of you. Life would be a little clouded just at present I’m afraid if it were not for my ever recurring memories of you. I often wonder if I’m thought of as often or what else you think about no doubt you will tell me “some time”.

But to change the subject again, I’ve started to work with a vim.

Perhaps you know one will never work so hard as when they work for themselves.

Further than that I’m going to have an awfully sore face eyes and lips if this wind keeps up. Two weeks I’ll be so brown that if I should ride into town I’m afraid I would be under the painful necessity of introducing myself.

I don’t think you would know me now. Kakie [sic] trousers and coat a hat with a six and a half in. rim with an eight in. crown, shoes that feel like they weigh seven and half pounds a piece, feelings that you could measure in a qt. cup (at the present time I mean).

But I’ve got an ambition that you couldn’t tie with a sixty foot lasso rope in a forty acre field. Anything else don’t present it self just now or I’m afraid I would be tempted to write it. But you don’t want to be that way when you write the more you write about yourself the better I will like it. Also mention a few of our joint affairs. The times we have spent together. These have been the happiest hours of my life. Everything is so still, the frogs are singing themselves hoarse just the way they used to do when we would sit on your porch and listen to them. But I must not get to remembering to [sic] much at the present or I’m afraid I will have to leave.

Well, Udall is calling me to go with him so I will have to say goodbye yet I still could write for hours. Goodbye dearest write to me often twice a week if you can. Think of me oh so many many times. Perhaps you notice I need some practice in letter writting [sic]. Yours lovingly, Harold.


(Photo of Apache County from flickr.com/photos/nicholas_t/2089358577/)