Mince Pie | Page 7

we love him, so it doesn't really matter whether we write or not.
Another week passes by, and no further communication from Bill. We
wonder whether he does love us as much as we thought. Still--we are

too proud to write and ask.
A few days later a new thought strikes us. Perhaps Bill thinks we have
died and he is annoyed because he wasn't invited to the funeral. Ought
we to wire him? No, because after all we are not dead, and even if he
thinks we are, his subsequent relief at hearing the good news of our
survival will outweigh his bitterness during the interval. One of these
days we will write him a letter that will really express our heart, filled
with all the grindings and gear-work of our mind, rich in affection and
fallacy. But we had better let it ripen and mellow for a while. Letters,
like wines, accumulate bright fumes and bubblings if kept under cork.
Presently we turn over that pile of letters again. We find in the lees of
the heap two or three that have gone for six months and can safely be
destroyed. Bill is still on our mind, but in a pleasant, dreamy kind of
way. He does not ache or twinge us as he did a month ago. It is fine to
have old friends like that and keep in touch with them. We wonder how
he is and whether he has two children or three. Splendid old Bill!
By this time we have written Bill several letters in imagination and
enjoyed doing so, but the matter of sending him an actual letter has
begun to pall. The thought no longer has the savor and vivid sparkle it
had once. When one feels like that it is unwise to write. Letters should
be spontaneous outpourings: they should never be undertaken merely
from a sense of duty. We know that Bill wouldn't want to get a letter
that was dictated by a feeling of obligation.
Another fortnight or so elapsing, it occurs to us that we have entirely
forgotten what Bill said to us in that letter. We take it out and con it
over. Delightful fellow! It is full of his own felicitous kinks of whim,
though some of it sounds a little old-fashioned by now. It seems a bit
stale, has lost some of its freshness and surprise. Better not answer it
just yet, for Christmas will soon be here and we shall have to write then
anyway. We wonder, can Bill hold out until Christmas without a letter?
We have been rereading some of those imaginary letters to Bill that
have been dancing in our head. They are full of all sorts of fine stuff. If
Bill ever gets them he will know how we love him. To use O. Henry's

immortal joke, we have days of Damon and Knights of Pythias writing
those uninked letters to Bill. A curious thought has come to us. Perhaps
it would be better if we never saw Bill again. It is very difficult to talk
to a man when you like him so much. It is much easier to write in the
sweet fantastic strain. We are so inarticulate when face to face. If Bill
comes to town we will leave word that we have gone away. Good old
Bill! He will always be a precious memory.
A few days later a sudden frenzy sweeps over us, and though we have
many pressing matters on hand, we mobilize pen and paper and literary
shock troops and prepare to hurl several battalions at Bill. But,
strangely enough, our utterance seems stilted and stiff. We have
nothing to say. My dear Bill, we begin, _it seems a long time since we
heard from you. Why don't you write? We still love you, in spite of all
your shortcomings_.
That doesn't seem very cordial. We muse over the pen and nothing
comes. Bursting with affection, we are unable to say a word.
Just then the phone rings. "Hello?" we say.
It is Bill, come to town unexpectedly.
"Good old fish!" we cry, ecstatic. "Meet you at the corner of Tenth and
Chestnut in five minutes."
We tear up the unfinished letter. Bill will never know how much we
love him. Perhaps it is just as well. It is very embarrassing to have your
friends know how you feel about them. When we meet him we will be
a little bit on our guard. It would not be well to be betrayed into any
extravagance of cordiality.
And perhaps a not altogether false little story could be written about a
man who never visited those most dear to him, because it panged him
so to say good-bye when he had to leave.

A LETTER