So interesting that the Bulkley family saved and passed on these letters! She must have meant quite a lot to Ollie. His handwriting from when he was much older is on one of the envelopes noting on the 1884 letter that it was written to him when he was starting to go to a church school in Macon.
Elgin, Illinois
August 5/82
Mr Ollie S. Bulkley
Blackburn, MO
Dear friend Ollie:-
Is that the right way to begin? I thought about it a long time before I could decide whether to say “Dear Ollie,” or “Dear friend.” You see I said both. Thank you for letting me call you that. We won’t pretend to be prim Miss Ilsley and dignified Mr Bulkley any more we are just going to be good friends, and I’m Addie and you’re Ollie, and neither of us belong to the “old folks co.”
I am glad you answered promptly. You see, you set a good example.
I’m afraid I would be too indulgent if you were so kind to me. But I shouldn’t be the least bit afraid of you, even if you are larger than I am. I was frightened at a cow this morning. I am not usually, but she made a lunge at a little dog trotting by my side. She was tied to a stake, though, and couldn’t reach us. Four years ago I went to school at a place similar to some of which doubtless you have read. One of the principals was badly hurt in a fracas. Another was tossed over the coalhill. Another was assaulted on his way home, he living in the country. Another broke his arm by being thrown out of a window. But the last one we had before I came away, never called names, never threated to do things, and never boasted of his strength. He was a cripple. Tall, slender, with dark hair, light beard, and piercing blue eyes. One day, he foresaw trouble with one of the boys, and he directed him to bring in some boards which were just outside the door for kindling. And there with the whole school watching, broke the heavy boards up as easily as I could have broken a thin piece of pine. Nobody doubted his strength after that. But he never had occasion to use it, for the larger boys saw they had found their match, and left. He never needed to whip anyone. One glance from those piercing eyes was enough. Moral (Well, what is it?)
Thank you so much for telling me about your mother. How you must love her. You must always be good, and kind, and gentle to her, your mother. Try to live so that she may have reason other than mother-love for being proud to say of you “He is my son.” I am glad you are trying so to live, and, my prayer for your life shall be, that it may be as noble and true as a noble, true heart can make it. I don’t think you are altogether right about there being so few truehearted girls in the world. I am not very well acquainted with girls in general, but I give it as my candid opinion that there are as many true-hearted girls as true-hearted men. I say men, because I think boys between twelve and twenty are less apt to think they have a hard time at home than are girls of the same age. But when they get beyond that age, they are about equally divided. There is one thing, though, I have never been able to decide. That is, whether the boy who calls his father “the guv” or “the boss”, and, his mother - his mother, Ollie – “the old woman”, loves his parents more than the girl who is settled down in the easy chair reading a novel while her tired father is hunting his slippers, and her mother is trying to sew and rock a baby at the same time. A mother had pinched and denied herself all her life to give her daughter a good advocation. She sewed from early dawn till late at night, stopping only to eat a morsel at mealtime, in order that her daughter might have as handsome a graduation dress as the rest of the girls at the fashionable boarding school to which she had insisted on going. When the last day came, the daughter was as proud, as gay, as happy, as her wealthy room mate. Her mother had promised not to disgrace her handsome daughter by appearing, but the mother love proved, too strong for her, and alone, she wept into a corner in the very front, but to one side of the stage. “Do look at that horrid old woman with the faded black bonnet and old shawl? I wonder how the usher came to put such a fright up here.” The ushers had not seen her, so she was left in peace. But she went home heart-broken at the careless laugh which had answered the rude speech, and her daughter’s evident desire to seem not to know her. The night, the daughter wrote to me:
“You can imagine how mortified I was! I had thought of telling Susie, and asking her what she would do about letting mother come. For of course she wanted to see me, though I dare say she didn’t understand anything. I wouldn’t say it to anyone else, but she is so ignorant. Uncle George has invited me to spend the summer with him, and though I suppose I’ll have to spend a day or two at home to have new measures taken, and buy material for some dresses, no one need know where I’ve been. And Uncle George says if mother is willing he wants me to live with them, because cousin Anna gets so lonely. Won’t that be grand? Mother won’t make any fuss about it, because I’ve told her often enough I never could stand it to live in that little old house where she does.”
Oh, how I hated the girl after that! But in two weeks the mother died, and Jennie wept over the cold, dead face, and lavished on the form of clay she kisses and caresses the mother had longed for in life. It was no use to love her then. She broke her mother’s heart, but she could not bring her back to life. But I could tell you of boys just as heartless, just as cruel.
I thank you for your opinion of me. I shall always try to deserve it. Yes, I think we are destined to be firm friends. I truly hope so. I don’t know what to say in regard to your future. I am no sybil, to be aware of the natural talents of a man whom I have never seen. I should not object to your going to West Point. I have an acquaintance who graduated from there last year. T?T? But if your mother will not consent to having her boy wrecked on some desert island or drowned, which is not at all strange, I object most strenuously myself to that, why, the next question is, for what have you the most talent? Probably your teacher advised you to study law because he saw you had talent in that direction. But I should not advise you to choose any profession unless you had talent for it, because you want to be a first class lawyer, physician, or whatever your profession may be. As the wise man said, “There’s always room at the top”, but it is a hard struggle to reach it. But he is no man who refuses to put his hand to the plow because it is hard to push through the furrow. But you see I can give you no advice. I can tell you nothing you do not already know. I wish you success in whatever you undertake.
I hope you will not go to Va. next year, because it is far away. But I want you to go wherever it will be most advantageous to you, even if it is so far away.
If I can possibly arrange to go back on the Chicago and Alton, I certainly will, with the hope of seeing you. If I do, I will write and let you know when. I hope I may.
There is a hand-organ just outside my window, and it certainly sounds sweet in this evening air. I never before heard one that I liked. It must be built on a new and improved plan, I think. I enjoyed a musical treat last night. Mr Chelsea, a sine singer, sang for us several songs. His “O Fair Dove, O Fond Dove” brought the tears to my syes. I have heard it sung before, but never as he sang it. He sang some comic songs, too. The old “O, Dem Golden Slippers” and others. I wish you could have been there. Please remember me to Mr Tisdale when you see him again.
The next time you feel so blue, and want to throw yourself down on your bed and think, all by yourself, just imagine that I am there, and saying “Now, Ollie, you mustn’t feel blue, because you make me sad, too.” I would talk to you just as sympathizingly as I knew how, if I were there. And try my very best to cheer you up. Go sit by the window and watch the little rivers running in every direction, and imagine that that one just coming around the corner is hurrying so fast because it wants to reach you with a message from me. That drenched little bird on yonder limb got wet because it flew through the rain to bring you a message from the one you love best. And yonder rainbow is perhaps seen by your mother as well as yourself. Some day, Ollie, some one will come who will love you “better than anyone else”. And you will be all to each other. Do you not feel fairly intoxicated sometimes, with the sweetness of that thought? That some day, somebody will belong to you, and you alone, and will love you “better than anyone else”?
I must go. Goodbye. Write to me before the 23rd. Ever your true friend,
Addie M. I_