WHY THE HAWKEYE MAN COULDN’T PAY

Iowa, 12, 3, ’06.

Dear Sir:—Your sumptuous letter received, and in reply will say that they come frequently, and it would have afforded the boys much amusement had not the melancholy thought come with it that you had no better sense than to abuse, slander and dun a gentleman.

You speak of honor, if you are honorable you know not whereof you speak. You also speak of causing me much trouble, my land, I have already trouble enough to send a whole brigade of you wise boys over the road fifty times. I will give you a history of this case, and if you are surprised at my actions in regard to your claim for 10.00 you are undoubtedly the worst set of misers on earth.

To begin with in 1891 I bought a restaurant on credit. In 1892 I bought an OX team, a timber cart, a pair of Texas ponies, a gold watch, a breech-loading shotgun, A repeating rifle, A milk cow, A pair of fine hogs, and a set of books all on the instalment plan, and hired hands to dig a fish pond. In 1905 my restaurant burned flat to the ground and never left me a thing, one of my ponies died and I hired the other one to an infernal, insignificant drummer. He killed him driving him too hard. Then I joined the farmers alliance and Methodist church, and took advantage of the homestead exemption and honest debtors’ relief law, and then had my applycation wrote out to join the masons. In the latter part of 1905 my father died and my mother married a Mexican. And my brother Bud was lynched for horse stealing. My sister choked to death on a button and I had to pay her funeral expenses.

In 1905 I got burned out again, and I took to drink and soon went through with the interest on what I owed, which was all I had left. My wife run away and left me all the children to take care of. I don’t care for anybody and nothing surprises me any more. Now if you feel like tackeling me pitch in, I’ll have to stand it, I suppose. But let me give you a gentle tip, getting money out of me is like stuffing butter in a keyhole with a hot awl.

You speak of making no effort to adjust this bill; what is the use? If steam boats were worth two cents apiece I couldn’t buy a gang plank. You ask if I thought it would of been more manly to of acknowledged the truth. I answer no, by the way, I don’t expect anything but to be pestered by lawyers, collection sharks and other humbugs and grafters, until this pestilence relieves me from their clutches. Be for I die I am going to Petition heigh heaven for a shower of fire and destruction on the whole bunch. And I will particular pray that the storm spend most of its fury on that southern hamlet where you claim to get your mail.

Maliciously and disrespectfully yours,

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