Yet not till the sun was riding high Did the sentry meet his commander's eye, Nor then till the Viceroy stood by.

To the lovers of grave formalities No greeting was ever so fine, I wis, As this host's and guest's high courtesies!

The seneschal feared, as the wind was west, A blast from Morena had chilled his rest; The Viceroy languidly confest

That cares of state, and—he dared to say— Some fears that the King could not repay The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way

Had marred his rest. Yet he trusted much None shared his wakefulness; though such Indeed might be! If he dared to touch

A theme so fine—the bride, perchance, Still slept! At least, they missed her glance To give this greeting countenance.

Be sure that the seneschal, in turn, Was deeply bowed with the grave concern Of the painful news his guest should learn:

"Last night, to her father's dying bed By a priest was the lady summoned; Nor know we yet how well she sped,

"But hope for the best." The grave Viceroy (Though grieved his visit had such alloy) Must still wish the seneschal great joy

Of a bride so true to her filial trust! Yet now, as the day waxed on, they must To horse, if they'd 'scape the noonday dust.

"Nay," said the seneschal, "at least, To mend the news of this funeral priest, Myself shall ride as your escort east."

The Viceroy bowed. Then turned aside To his nearest follower: "With me ride— You and Felipe—on either side.

"And list! Should anything me befall, Mischance of ambush or musket-ball, Cleave to his saddle yon seneschal!

"No more." Then gravely in accents clear Took formal leave of his late good cheer; Whiles the seneschal whispered a musketeer,

Carelessly stroking his pommel top: "If from the saddle ye see me drop, Riddle me quickly yon solemn fop!"

So these, with many a compliment, Each on his own dark thought intent, With grave politeness onward went,

Riding high, and in sight of all, Viceroy, escort, and seneschal, Under the shade of the Almandral;

Holding their secret hard and fast, Silent and grave they ride at last Into the dusty traveled Past.

Even like this they passed away Two hundred years ago to-day. What of the lady? Who shall say?

Do the souls of the dying ever yearn To some favored spot for the dust's return, For the homely peace of the family urn?

I know not. Yet did the seneschal, Chancing in after-years to fall Pierced by a Flemish musket-ball,

Call to his side a trusty friar, And bid him swear, as his last desire, To bear his corse to San Pedro's choir

At Leon, where 'neath a shield azure Should his mortal frame find sepulture: This much, for the pains Christ did endure.

Be sure that the friar loyally Fulfilled his trust by land and sea, Till the spires of Leon silently

Rose through the green of the Almandral, As if to beckon the seneschal To his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall.

I wot that the saints on either side Leaned from their niches open-eyed To see the doors of the church swing wide;

That the wounds of the Saviour on either flank Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank, Went by with the coffin, clank on clank.

For why? When they raised the marble door Of the tomb, untouched for years before, The friar swooned on the choir floor;

For there, in her laces and festal dress, Lay the dead man's wife, her loveliness Scarcely changed by her long duress,—

As on the night she had passed away; Only that near her a dagger lay, With the written legend, "Por el Rey."

What was their greeting, the groom and bride, They whom that steel and the years divide? I know not. Here they lie side by side.

Side by side! Though the king has his way, Even the dead at last have their day. Make you the moral. "Por el Rey!"



RAMON

(REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO)

Drunk and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face, More like brute than any man Alive or dead, By his great pump out of gear, Lay the peon engineer, Waking only just to hear, Overhead, Angry tones that called his name, Oaths and cries of bitter blame,— Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled!

"To the man who'll bring to me," Cried Intendant Harry Lee,— Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,— "Bring the sot alive or dead, I will give to him," he said, "Fifteen hundred pesos down, Just to set the rascal's crown Underneath this heel of mine: Since but death Deserves the man whose deed, Be it vice or want of heed, Stops the pumps that give us breath,— Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower levels of the mine!"

No one answered; for a cry From the shaft rose up on high, And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, Came the miners each, the bolder Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, Grappling, clinging to their hold or Letting go, As the weaker gasped and fell From the ladder to the well,— To the poisoned pit of hell Down below!

"To the man who sets them free," Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,— Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,— "Brings them out and sets them free, I will give that man," said he, "Twice that sum, who with a rope Face to face with Death shall cope. Let him come who dares to hope!" "Hold your peace!" some one replied, Standing by the foreman's side; "There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!"

Then they held their breath with awe, Pulling on the rope, and saw Fainting figures reappear, On the black rope swinging clear, Fastened by some skillful hand from below; Till a score the level gained, And but one alone remained,— He the hero and the last, He whose skillful hand made fast The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!

Haggard, gasping, down dropped he At the feet of Harry Lee,— Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine. "I have come," he gasped, "to claim Both rewards. Senor, my name Is Ramon! I'm the drunken engineer, I'm the coward, Senor"— Here He fell over, by that sign, Dead as stone!



DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH

(REFECTORY, MISSION SAN GABRIEL, 1869)

Good!—said the Padre,—believe me still, "Don Giovanni," or what you will, The type's eternal! We knew him here As Don Diego del Sud. I fear The story's no new one! Will you hear?

One of those spirits you can't tell why God has permitted. Therein I Have the advantage, for I hold That wolves are sent to the purest fold, And we'd save the wolf if we'd get the lamb. You're no believer? Good! I am.

Well, for some purpose, I grant you dim, The Don loved women, and they loved him. Each thought herself his LAST love! Worst, Many believed that they were his FIRST! And, such are these creatures since the Fall, The very doubt had a charm for all!

You laugh! You are young, but I—indeed I have no patience... To proceed:— You saw, as you passed through the upper town, The Eucinal where the road goes down To San Felipe! There one morn They found Diego,—his mantle torn, And as many holes through his doublet's band As there were wronged husbands—you understand!

"Dying," so said the gossips. "Dead" Was what the friars who found him said. May be. Quien sabe? Who else should know? It was a hundred years ago. There was a funeral. Small indeed— Private. What would you? To proceed:—

Scarcely the year had flown. One night The Commandante awoke in fright, Hearing below his casement's bar The well-known twang of the Don's guitar; And rushed to the window, just to see His wife a-swoon on the balcony.

One week later, Don Juan Ramirez Found his own daughter, the Dona Inez, Pale as a ghost, leaning out to hear The song of that phantom cavalier. Even Alcalde Pedro Blas Saw, it was said, through his niece's glass, The shade of Diego twice repass.

What these gentlemen each confessed Heaven and the Church only knows. At best The case was a bad one. How to deal With Sin as a Ghost, they couldn't but feel Was an awful thing. Till a certain Fray Humbly offered to show the way.

And the way was this. Did I say before That the Fray was a stranger? No, Senor? Strange! very strange! I should have said That the very week that the Don lay dead He came among us. Bread he broke Silent, nor ever to one he spoke. So he had vowed it! Below his brows His face was hidden. There are such vows!

Strange! are they not? You do not use Snuff? A bad habit!

Well, the views Of the Fray were these: that the penance done By the caballeros was right; but one Was due from the CAUSE, and that, in brief, Was Dona Dolores Gomez, chief, And Inez, Sanchicha, Concepcion, And Carmen,—well, half the girls in town On his tablets the Friar had written down.

These were to come on a certain day And ask at the hands of the pious Fray For absolution. That done, small fear But the shade of Diego would disappear.

They came; each knelt in her turn and place To the pious Fray with his hidden face And voiceless lips, and each again Took back her soul freed from spot or stain, Till the Dona Inez, with eyes downcast And a tear on their fringes, knelt her last.

And then—perhaps that her voice was low From fear or from shame—the monks said so— But the Fray leaned forward, when, presto! all Were thrilled by a scream, and saw her fall Fainting beside the confessional.

And so was the ghost of Diego laid As the Fray had said. Never more his shade Was seen at San Gabriel's Mission. Eh! The girl interests you? I dare say! "Nothing," said she, when they brought her to— "Only a faintness!" They spoke more true Who said 'twas a stubborn soul. But then— Women are women, and men are men!

So, to return. As I said before, Having got the wolf, by the same high law We saved the lamb in the wolf's own jaw, And that's my moral. The tale, I fear, But poorly told. Yet it strikes me here Is stuff for a moral. What's your view? You smile, Don Pancho. Ah! that's like you!



AT THE HACIENDA

Know I not whom thou mayst be Carved upon this olive-tree,— "Manuela of La Torre,"— For around on broken walls Summer sun and spring rain falls, And in vain the low wind calls "Manuela of La Torre."

Of that song no words remain But the musical refrain,— "Manuela of La Torre." Yet at night, when winds are still, Tinkles on the distant hill A guitar, and words that thrill Tell to me the old, old story,— Old when first thy charms were sung, Old when these old walls were young, "Manuela of La Torre."



FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE

It was the morning season of the year; It was the morning era of the land; The watercourses rang full loud and clear; Portala's cross stood where Portala's hand Had planted it when Faith was taught by Fear, When monks and missions held the sole command Of all that shore beside the peaceful sea, Where spring-tides beat their long-drawn reveille.

Out of the mission of San Luis Rey, All in that brisk, tumultuous spring weather, Rode Friar Pedro, in a pious way, With six dragoons in cuirasses of leather, Each armed alike for either prayer or fray; Handcuffs and missals they had slung together, And as an aid the gospel truth to scatter Each swung a lasso—alias a "riata."

In sooth, that year the harvest had been slack, The crop of converts scarce worth computation; Some souls were lost, whose owners had turned back To save their bodies frequent flagellation; And some preferred the songs of birds, alack! To Latin matins and their souls' salvation, And thought their own wild whoopings were less dreary Than Father Pedro's droning miserere.

To bring them back to matins and to prime, To pious works and secular submission, To prove to them that liberty was crime,— This was, in fact, the Padre's present mission; To get new souls perchance at the same time, And bring them to a "sense of their condition,"— That easy phrase, which, in the past and present, Means making that condition most unpleasant.

He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow; He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill; He saw the gopher working in his burrow; He saw the squirrel scampering at his will:— He saw all this, and felt no doubt a thorough And deep conviction of God's goodness; still He failed to see that in His glory He Yet left the humblest of His creatures free.

He saw the flapping crow, whose frequent note Voiced the monotony of land and sky, Mocking with graceless wing and rusty coat His priestly presence as he trotted by. He would have cursed the bird by bell and rote, But other game just then was in his eye,— A savage camp, whose occupants preferred Their heathen darkness to the living Word.

He rang his bell, and at the martial sound Twelve silver spurs their jingling rowels clashed; Six horses sprang across the level ground As six dragoons in open order dashed; Above their heads the lassos circled round, In every eye a pious fervor flashed; They charged the camp, and in one moment more They lassoed six and reconverted four.

The Friar saw the conflict from a knoll, And sang Laus Deo and cheered on his men: "Well thrown, Bautista,—that's another soul; After him, Gomez,—try it once again; This way, Felipe,—there the heathen stole; Bones of St. Francis!—surely that makes TEN; Te Deum laudamus—but they're very wild; Non nobis Domine—all right, my child!"

When at that moment—as the story goes— A certain squaw, who had her foes eluded, Ran past the Friar, just before his nose. He stared a moment, and in silence brooded; Then in his breast a pious frenzy rose And every other prudent thought excluded; He caught a lasso, and dashed in a canter After that Occidental Atalanta.

High o'er his head he swirled the dreadful noose; But, as the practice was quite unfamiliar, His first cast tore Felipe's captive loose, And almost choked Tiburcio Camilla, And might have interfered with that brave youth's Ability to gorge the tough tortilla; But all things come by practice, and at last His flying slip-knot caught the maiden fast.

Then rose above the plain a mingled yell Of rage and triumph,—a demoniac whoop: The Padre heard it like a passing knell, And would have loosened his unchristian loop; But the tough raw-hide held the captive well, And held, alas! too well the captor-dupe; For with one bound the savage fled amain, Dragging horse, Friar, down the lonely plain.

Down the arroyo, out across the mead, By heath and hollow, sped the flying maid, Dragging behind her still the panting steed And helpless Friar, who in vain essayed To cut the lasso or to check his speed. He felt himself beyond all human aid, And trusted to the saints,—and, for that matter, To some weak spot in Felipe's riata.

Alas! the lasso had been duly blessed, And, like baptism, held the flying wretch,— A doctrine that the priest had oft expressed, Which, like the lasso, might be made to stretch, But would not break; so neither could divest Themselves of it, but, like some awful fetch, The holy Friar had to recognize The image of his fate in heathen guise.

He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow; He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill; He saw the gopher standing in his burrow; He saw the squirrel scampering at his will:— He saw all this, and felt no doubt how thorough The contrast was to his condition; still The squaw kept onward to the sea, till night And the cold sea-fog hid them both from sight.

The morning came above the serried coast, Lighting the snow-peaks with its beacon-fires, Driving before it all the fleet-winged host Of chattering birds above the Mission spires, Filling the land with light and joy, but most The savage woods with all their leafy lyres; In pearly tints and opal flame and fire The morning came, but not the holy Friar.

Weeks passed away. In vain the Fathers sought Some trace or token that might tell his story; Some thought him dead, or, like Elijah, caught Up to the heavens in a blaze of glory. In this surmise some miracles were wrought On his account, and souls in purgatory Were thought to profit from his intercession; In brief, his absence made a "deep impression."

A twelvemonth passed; the welcome Spring once more Made green the hills beside the white-faced Mission, Spread her bright dais by the western shore, And sat enthroned, a most resplendent vision. The heathen converts thronged the chapel door At morning mass, when, says the old tradition, A frightful whoop throughout the church resounded, And to their feet the congregation bounded.

A tramp of hoofs upon the beaten course, Then came a sight that made the bravest quail: A phantom Friar on a spectre horse, Dragged by a creature decked with horns and tail. By the lone Mission, with the whirlwind's force, They madly swept, and left a sulphurous trail: And that was all,—enough to tell the story, And leave unblessed those souls in purgatory.

And ever after, on that fatal day That Friar Pedro rode abroad lassoing, A ghostly couple came and went away With savage whoop and heathenish hallooing, Which brought discredit on San Luis Rey, And proved the Mission's ruin and undoing; For ere ten years had passed, the squaw and Friar Performed to empty walls and fallen spire.

The Mission is no more; upon its wall. The golden lizards slip, or breathless pause, Still as the sunshine brokenly that falls Through crannied roof and spider-webs of gauze; No more the bell its solemn warning calls,— A holier silence thrills and overawes; And the sharp lights and shadows of to-day Outline the Mission of San Luis Rey.



IN THE MISSION GARDEN

(1865)

FATHER FELIPE

I speak not the English well, but Pachita, She speak for me; is it not so, my Pancha? Eh, little rogue? Come, salute me the stranger Americano.

Sir, in my country we say, "Where the heart is, There live the speech." Ah! you not understand? So! Pardon an old man,—what you call "old fogy,"— Padre Felipe!

Old, Senor, old! just so old as the Mission. You see that pear-tree? How old you think, Senor? Fifteen year? Twenty? Ah, Senor, just fifty Gone since I plant him!

You like the wine? It is some at the Mission, Made from the grape of the year eighteen hundred; All the same time when the earthquake he come to San Juan Bautista.

But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree; And I am the olive, and this is the garden: And "Pancha" we say, but her name is "Francisca," Same like her mother.

Eh, you knew HER? No? Ah! it is a story; But I speak not, like Pachita, the English: So! if I try, you will sit here beside me, And shall not laugh, eh?

When the American come to the Mission, Many arrive at the house of Francisca: One,—he was fine man,—he buy the cattle Of Jose Castro.

So! he came much, and Francisca, she saw him: And it was love,—and a very dry season; And the pears bake on the tree,—and the rain come, But not Francisca.

Not for one year; and one night I have walk much Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca,— Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca,— Under the olive-tree.

Sir, it was sad;... but I speak not the English; So!... she stay here, and she wait for her husband: He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside; There stands Pachita.

Ah! there's the Angelus. Will you not enter? Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha? Go, little rogue—st! attend to the stranger! Adios, Senor.

PACHITA (briskly).

So, he's been telling that yarn about mother! Bless you! he tells it to every stranger: Folks about yer say the old man's my father; What's your opinion?



THE LOST GALLEON*

In sixteen hundred and forty-one, The regular yearly galleon, Laden with odorous gums and spice, India cottons and India rice, And the richest silks of far Cathay, Was due at Acapulco Bay.

Due she was, and overdue,— Galleon, merchandise and crew, Creeping along through rain and shine, Through the tropics, under the line. The trains were waiting outside the walls, The wives of sailors thronged the town, The traders sat by their empty stalls, And the Viceroy himself came down; The bells in the tower were all a-trip, Te Deums were on each Father's lip, The limes were ripening in the sun For the sick of the coming galleon.

All in vain. Weeks passed away, And yet no galleon saw the bay. India goods advanced in price; The Governor missed his favorite spice; The Senoritas mourned for sandal And the famous cottons of Coromandel; And some for an absent lover lost, And one for a husband,—Dona Julia, Wife of the captain tempest-tossed, In circumstances so peculiar; Even the Fathers, unawares, Grumbled a little at their prayers; And all along the coast that year Votive candles wore scarce and dear.

Never a tear bedims the eye That time and patience will not dry; Never a lip is curved with pain That can't be kissed into smiles again; And these same truths, as far as I know, Obtained on the coast of Mexico More than two hundred years ago, In sixteen hundred and fifty-one,— Ten years after the deed was done,— And folks had forgotten the galleon: The divers plunged in the gulf for pearls, White as the teeth of the Indian girls; The traders sat by their full bazaars; The mules with many a weary load, And oxen dragging their creaking cars, Came and went on the mountain road.

Where was the galleon all this while? Wrecked on some lonely coral isle, Burnt by the roving sea-marauders, Or sailing north under secret orders? Had she found the Anian passage famed, By lying Maldonado claimed, And sailed through the sixty-fifth degree Direct to the North Atlantic Sea? Or had she found the "River of Kings," Of which De Fonte told such strange things, In sixteen forty? Never a sign, East or west or under the line, They saw of the missing galleon; Never a sail or plank or chip They found of the long-lost treasure-ship, Or enough to build a tale upon. But when she was lost, and where and how, Are the facts we're coming to just now.

Take, if you please, the chart of that day, Published at Madrid,—por el Rey; Look for a spot in the old South Sea, The hundred and eightieth degree Longitude west of Madrid: there, Under the equatorial glare, Just where the east and west are one, You'll find the missing galleon,— You'll find the San Gregorio, yet Riding the seas, with sails all set, Fresh as upon the very day She sailed from Acapulco Bay.

How did she get there? What strange spell Kept her two hundred years so well, Free from decay and mortal taint? What but the prayers of a patron saint!

A hundred leagues from Manilla town, The San Gregorio's helm came down; Round she went on her heel, and not A cable's length from a galliot That rocked on the waters just abreast Of the galleon's course, which was west-sou'-west.

Then said the galleon's commandante, General Pedro Sobriente (That was his rank on land and main, A regular custom of Old Spain), "My pilot is dead of scurvy: may I ask the longitude, time, and day?" The first two given and compared; The third—the commandante stared! "The FIRST of June? I make it second." Said the stranger, "Then you've wrongly reckoned; I make it FIRST: as you came this way, You should have lost, d'ye see, a day; Lost a day, as plainly see, On the hundred and eightieth degree." "Lost a day?" "Yes; if not rude, When did you make east longitude?" "On the ninth of May,—our patron's day." "On the ninth?—YOU HAD NO NINTH OF MAY! Eighth and tenth was there; but stay"— Too late; for the galleon bore away.

Lost was the day they should have kept, Lost unheeded and lost unwept; Lost in a way that made search vain, Lost in a trackless and boundless main; Lost like the day of Job's awful curse, In his third chapter, third and fourth verse; Wrecked was their patron's only day,— What would the holy Fathers say?

Said the Fray Antonio Estavan, The galleon's chaplain,—a learned man,— "Nothing is lost that you can regain; And the way to look for a thing is plain, To go where you lost it, back again. Back with your galleon till you see The hundred and eightieth degree. Wait till the rolling year goes round, And there will the missing day be found; For you'll find, if computation's true, That sailing EAST will give to you Not only one ninth of May, but two,— One for the good saint's present cheer, And one for the day we lost last year."

Back to the spot sailed the galleon; Where, for a twelvemonth, off and on The hundred and eightieth degree She rose and fell on a tropic sea. But lo! when it came to the ninth of May, All of a sudden becalmed she lay One degree from that fatal spot, Without the power to move a knot; And of course the moment she lost her way, Gone was her chance to save that day.

To cut a lengthening story short, She never saved it. Made the sport Of evil spirits and baffling wind, She was always before or just behind, One day too soon or one day too late, And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait. She had two Eighths, as she idly lay, Two Tenths, but never a NINTH of May; And there she rides through two hundred years Of dreary penance and anxious fears; Yet, through the grace of the saint she served, Captain and crew are still preserved.

By a computation that still holds good, Made by the Holy Brotherhood, The San Gregorio will cross that line In nineteen hundred and thirty-nine: Just three hundred years to a day From the time she lost the ninth of May. And the folk in Acapulco town, Over the waters looking down, Will see in the glow of the setting sun The sails of the missing galleon, And the royal standard of Philip Rey, The gleaming mast and glistening spar, As she nears the surf of the outer bar. A Te Deum sung on her crowded deck, An odor of spice along the shore, A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck,— And the yearly galleon sails no more In or out of the olden bay; For the blessed patron has found his day.

———-

Such is the legend. Hear this truth: Over the trackless past, somewhere, Lie the lost days of our tropic youth, Only regained by faith and prayer, Only recalled by prayer and plaint: Each lost day has its patron saint!

* See notes at end.



III. IN DIALECT



"JIM"

Say there! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild? Well,—no offense: Thar ain't no sense In gittin' riled!

Jim was my chum Up on the Bar: That's why I come Down from up yar, Lookin' for Jim. Thank ye, sir! YOU Ain't of that crew,— Blest if you are!

Money? Not much: That ain't my kind; I ain't no such. Rum? I don't mind, Seein' it's you.

Well, this yer Jim,— Did you know him? Jes' 'bout your size; Same kind of eyes;— Well, that is strange: Why, it's two year Since he came here, Sick, for a change.

Well, here's to us: Eh? The h—- you say! Dead? That little cuss?

What makes you star', You over thar? Can't a man drop 's glass in yer shop But you must r'ar? It wouldn't take D——d much to break You and your bar.

Dead! Poor—little—Jim! Why, thar was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben,— No-account men: Then to take HIM!

Well, thar— Good-by— No more, sir—I— Eh? What's that you say? Why, dern it!—sho!— No? Yes! By Joe! Sold!

Sold! Why, you limb, You ornery, Derned old Long-legged Jim.



CHIQUITA

Beautiful! Sir, you may say so. Thar isn't her match in the county; Is thar, old gal,—Chiquita, my darling, my beauty? Feel of that neck, sir,—thar's velvet! Whoa! steady,—ah, will you, you vixen! Whoa! I say. Jack, trot her out; let the gentleman look at her paces.

Morgan!—she ain't nothing else, and I've got the papers to prove it. Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't buy her. Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of Tuolumne? Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down in 'Frisco?

Hedn't no savey, hed Briggs. Thar, Jack! that'll do,—quit that foolin'! Nothin' to what she kin do, when she's got her work cut out before her. Hosses is hosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is jockeys: And 'tain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows what a hoss has got in him.

Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan's leaders? Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low water! Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his nevey Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water all round us;

Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek just a-bilin', Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river. I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, Chiquita; And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of the canyon.

Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita Buckled right down to her work, and, a fore I could yell to her rider, Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and me standing, And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and a-driftin' to thunder!

Would ye b'lieve it? That night, that hoss, that 'ar filly, Chiquita, Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and dripping: Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, Just as she swam the Fork,—that hoss, that 'ar filly, Chiquita.

That's what I call a hoss! and— What did you say?— Oh, the nevey? Drownded, I reckon,—leastways, he never kem beck to deny it. Ye see the derned fool had no seat, ye couldn't have made him a rider; And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses—well, hosses is hosses!



DOW'S FLAT

(1856)

Dow's Flat. That's its name; And I reckon that you Are a stranger? The same? Well, I thought it was true,— For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first view.

It was called after Dow,— Which the same was an ass,— And as to the how Thet the thing kem to pass,— Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here in the grass.

You see this 'yer Dow Hed the worst kind of luck; He slipped up somehow On each thing thet he struck. Why, ef he'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing'd get up and buck.

He mined on the bar Till he couldn't pay rates; He was smashed by a car When he tunneled with Bates; And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five kids from the States.

It was rough,—mighty rough; But the boys they stood by, And they brought him the stuff For a house, on the sly; And the old woman,—well, she did washing, and took on when no one was nigh.

But this 'yer luck of Dow's Was so powerful mean That the spring near his house Dried right up on the green; And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen.

Then the bar petered out, And the boys wouldn't stay; And the chills got about, And his wife fell away; But Dow in his well kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous way.

One day,—it was June, And a year ago, jest— This Dow kem at noon To his work like the rest, With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and derringer hid in his breast.

He goes to the well, And he stands on the brink, And stops for a spell Jest to listen and think: For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir!), you see, kinder made the cuss blink.

His two ragged gals In the gulch were at play, And a gownd that was Sal's Kinder flapped on a bay: Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all,—as I've heer'd the folks say.

And—That's a peart hoss Thet you've got,—ain't it now? What might be her cost? Eh? Oh!—Well, then, Dow— Let's see,—well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow.

For a blow of his pick Sorter caved in the side, And he looked and turned sick, Then he trembled and cried. For you see the dern cuss had struck—"Water?"—Beg your parding, young man,—there you lied!

It was GOLD,—in the quartz, And it ran all alike; And I reckon five oughts Was the worth of that strike; And that house with the coopilow's his'n,—which the same isn't bad for a Pike.

Thet's why it's Dow's Flat; And the thing of it is That he kinder got that Through sheer contrairiness: For 'twas WATER the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck made him certain to miss.

Thet's so! Thar's your way, To the left of yon tree; But—a—look h'yur, say? Won't you come up to tea? No? Well, then the next time you're passin'; and ask after Dow,— and thet's ME.



IN THE TUNNEL

Didn't know Flynn,— Flynn of Virginia,— Long as he's been 'yar? Look 'ee here, stranger, Whar HEV you been?

Here in this tunnel He was my pardner, That same Tom Flynn,— Working together, In wind and weather, Day out and in.

Didn't know Flynn! Well, that IS queer; Why, it's a sin To think of Tom Flynn,— Tom with his cheer, Tom without fear,— Stranger, look 'yar!

Thar in the drift, Back to the wall, He held the timbers Ready to fall; Then in the darkness I heard him call: "Run for your life, Jake! Run for your wife's sake! Don't wait for me." And that was all Heard in the din, Heard of Tom Flynn,— Flynn of Virginia.

That's all about Flynn of Virginia. That lets me out. Here in the damp,— Out of the sun,— That 'ar derned lamp Makes my eyes run. Well, there,—I'm done!

But, sir, when you'll Hear the next fool Asking of Flynn,— Flynn of Virginia,— Just you chip in, Say you knew Flynn; Say that you've been 'yar.



"CICELY"

(ALKALI STATION)

Cicely says you're a poet; maybe,—I ain't much on rhyme: I reckon you'd give me a hundred, and beat me every time. Poetry!—that's the way some chaps puts up an idee, But I takes mine "straight without sugar," and that's what's the matter with me.

Poetry!—just look round you,—alkali, rock, and sage; Sage-brush, rock, and alkali; ain't it a pretty page! Sun in the east at mornin', sun in the west at night, And the shadow of this 'yer station the on'y thing moves in sight.

Poetry!—Well now—Polly! Polly, run to your mam; Run right away, my pooty! By-by! Ain't she a lamb? Poetry!—that reminds me o' suthin' right in that suit: Jest shet that door thar, will yer?—for Cicely's ears is cute.

Ye noticed Polly,—the baby? A month afore she was born, Cicely—my old woman—was moody-like and forlorn; Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and trees; Family man yourself, sir? Well, you know what a woman be's.

Narvous she was, and restless,—said that she "couldn't stay." Stay!—and the nearest woman seventeen miles away. But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be on hand, And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o' land.

One night,—the tenth of October,—I woke with a chill and a fright, For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn't in sight, But a note was pinned on the blanket, which it said that she "couldn't stay," But had gone to visit her neighbor,—seventeen miles away!

When and how she stampeded, I didn't wait for to see, For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she; Running first this way and that way, like a hound that is off the scent, For there warn't no track in the darkness to tell me the way she went.

I've had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this spot,— Lost on the Plains in '50, drownded almost and shot; But out on this alkali desert, a-hunting a crazy wife, Was ra'ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life.

"Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!" I called, and I held my breath, And "Cicely!" came from the canyon,—and all was as still as death. And "Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!" came from the rocks below, And jest but a whisper of "Cicely!" down from them peaks of snow.

I ain't what you call religious,—but I jest looked up to the sky, And—this 'yer's to what I'm coming, and maybe ye think I lie: But up away to the east'ard, yaller and big and far, I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of star.

Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me: Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never see: Big and yaller and dancing,—I never saw such a star, And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went for it then and thar.

Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead, Keeping the star afore me, I went wherever it led. It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and nigh, Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby's cry.

Listen! thar's the same music; but her lungs they are stronger now Than the day I packed her and her mother,—I'm derned if I jest know how. But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o' the whole thing is That Cis never knew what happened from that very night to this!

But Cicely says you're a poet, and maybe you might, some day, Jest sling her a rhyme 'bout a baby that was born in a curious way, And see what she says; and, old fellow, when you speak of the star, don't tell As how 'twas the doctor's lantern,—for maybe 'twon't sound so well.



PENELOPE

(SIMPSON'S BAR, 1858)

So you've kem 'yer agen, And one answer won't do? Well, of all the derned men That I've struck, it is you. O Sal! 'yer's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavortin' round 'yer in the dew.

Kem in, ef you WILL. Thar,—quit! Take a cheer. Not that; you can't fill Them theer cushings this year,— For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and they don't make such men about 'yer.

He was tall, was my Jack, And as strong as a tree. Thar's his gun on the rack,— Jest you heft it, and see. And YOU come a courtin' his widder! Lord! where can that critter, Sal, be!

You'd fill my Jack's place? And a man of your size,— With no baird to his face, Nor a snap to his eyes, And nary—Sho! thar! I was foolin',—I was, Joe, for sartain,—don't rise.

Sit down. Law! why, sho! I'm as weak as a gal. Sal! Don't you go, Joe, Or I'll faint,—sure, I shall. Sit down,—ANYWHEER, where you like, Joe,—in that cheer, if you choose,—Lord! where's Sal?



PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES

(TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870)

Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name; And I shall not deny, In regard to the same, What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand: It was Euchre. The same He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve, Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see,— Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,"— And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand, But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs,— Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers,—that's wax.

Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar,— Which the same I am free to maintain.



THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.

Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months' proceedings of that same Society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare; And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault, It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault; He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass,—at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; And I've told in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.



LUKE

(IN THE COLORADO PARK, 1873)

Wot's that you're readin'?—a novel? A novel!—well, darn my skin! You a man grown and bearded and histin' such stuff ez that in— Stuff about gals and their sweethearts! No wonder you're thin ez a knife. Look at me—clar two hundred—and never read one in my life!

That's my opinion o' novels. And ez to their lyin' round here, They belong to the Jedge's daughter—the Jedge who came up last year On account of his lungs and the mountains and the balsam o' pine and fir; And his daughter—well, she read novels, and that's what's the matter with her.

Yet she was sweet on the Jedge, and stuck by him day and night, Alone in the cabin up 'yer—till she grew like a ghost, all white. She wus only a slip of a thing, ez light and ez up and away Ez rifle smoke blown through the woods, but she wasn't my kind—no way!

Speakin' o' gals, d'ye mind that house ez you rise the hill, A mile and a half from White's, and jist above Mattingly's mill? You do? Well now THAR's a gal! What! you saw her? Oh, come now, thar! quit! She was only bedevlin' you boys, for to me she don't cotton one bit.

Now she's what I call a gal—ez pretty and plump ez a quail; Teeth ez white ez a hound's, and they'd go through a ten-penny nail; Eyes that kin snap like a cap. So she asked to know "whar I was hid?" She did! Oh, it's jist like her sass, for she's peart ez a Katydid.

But what was I talking of?—Oh! the Jedge and his daughter—she read Novels the whole day long, and I reckon she read them abed; And sometimes she read them out loud to the Jedge on the porch where he sat, And 'twas how "Lord Augustus" said this, and how "Lady Blanche" she said that.

But the sickest of all that I heerd was a yarn thet they read 'bout a chap, "Leather-stocking" by name, and a hunter chock full o' the greenest o' sap; And they asked me to hear, but I says, "Miss Mabel, not any for me; When I likes I kin sling my own lies, and thet chap and I shouldn't agree."

Yet somehow or other that gal allus said that I brought her to mind Of folks about whom she had read, or suthin belike of thet kind, And thar warn't no end o' the names that she give me thet summer up here— "Robin Hood," "Leather-stocking" "Rob Roy,"—Oh, I tell you, the critter was queer!

And yet, ef she hadn't been spiled, she was harmless enough in her way; She could jabber in French to her dad, and they said that she knew how to play; And she worked me that shot-pouch up thar, which the man doesn't live ez kin use; And slippers—you see 'em down 'yer—ez would cradle an Injin's papoose.

Yet along o' them novels, you see, she was wastin' and mopin' away, And then she got shy with her tongue, and at last she had nothin' to say; And whenever I happened around, her face it was hid by a book, And it warn't till the day she left that she give me ez much ez a look.

And this was the way it was. It was night when I kem up here To say to 'em all "good-by," for I reckoned to go for deer At "sun up" the day they left. So I shook 'em all round by the hand, 'Cept Mabel, and she was sick, ez they give me to understand.

But jist ez I passed the house next morning at dawn, some one, Like a little waver o' mist got up on the hill with the sun; Miss Mabel it was, alone—all wrapped in a mantle o' lace— And she stood there straight in the road, with a touch o' the sun in her face.

And she looked me right in the eye—I'd seen suthin' like it before When I hunted a wounded doe to the edge o' the Clear Lake Shore, And I had my knee on its neck, and I jist was raisin' my knife, When it give me a look like that, and—well, it got off with its life.

"We are going to-day," she said, "and I thought I would say good-by To you in your own house, Luke—these woods and the bright blue sky! You've always been kind to us, Luke, and papa has found you still As good as the air he breathes, and wholesome as Laurel Tree Hill.

"And we'll always think of you, Luke, as the thing we could not take away,— The balsam that dwells in the woods, the rainbow that lives in the spray. And you'll sometimes think of ME, Luke, as you know you once used to say, A rifle smoke blown through the woods, a moment, but never to stay."

And then we shook hands. She turned, but a-suddent she tottered and fell, And I caught her sharp by the waist, and held her a minit. Well, It was only a minit, you know, thet ez cold and ez white she lay Ez a snowflake here on my breast, and then—well, she melted away—

And was gone.... And thar are her books; but I says not any for me; Good enough may be for some, but them and I mightn't agree. They spiled a decent gal ez might hev made some chap a wife, And look at me!—clar two hundred—and never read one in my life!



"THE BABES IN THE WOODS"

(BIG PINE FLAT, 1871)

"Something characteristic," eh? Humph! I reckon you mean by that Something that happened in our way, Here at the crossin' of Big Pine Flat. Times aren't now as they used to be, When gold was flush and the boys were frisky, And a man would pull out his battery For anything—maybe the price of whiskey.

Nothing of that sort, eh? That's strange! Why, I thought you might be diverted Hearing how Jones of Red Rock Range Drawed his "hint to the unconverted," And saying, "Whar will you have it?" shot Cherokee Bob at the last debating! What was the question I forgot, But Jones didn't like Bob's way of stating.

Nothing of that kind, eh? You mean Something milder? Let's see!—O Joe! Tell to the stranger that little scene Out of the "Babes in the Woods." You know, "Babes" was the name that we gave 'em, sir, Two lean lads in their teens, and greener Than even the belt of spruce and fir Where they built their nest, and each day grew leaner.

No one knew where they came from. None Cared to ask if they had a mother. Runaway schoolboys, maybe. One Tall and dark as a spruce; the other Blue and gold in the eyes and hair, Soft and low in his speech, but rarely Talking with us; and we didn't care To get at their secret at all unfairly.

For they were so quiet, so sad and shy, Content to trust each other solely, That somehow we'd always shut one eye, And never seem to observe them wholly As they passed to their work. 'Twas a worn-out claim, And it paid them grub. They could live without it, For the boys had a way of leaving game In their tent, and forgetting all about it.

Yet no one asked for their secret. Dumb It lay in their big eyes' heavy hollows. It was understood that no one should come To their tent unawares, save the bees and swallows. So they lived alone. Until one warm night I was sitting here at the tent-door,—so, sir! When out of the sunset's rosy light Up rose the Sheriff of Mariposa.

I knew at once there was something wrong, For his hand and his voice shook just a little, And there isn't much you can fetch along To make the sinews of Jack Hill brittle. "Go warn the Babes!" he whispered, hoarse; "Tell them I'm coming—to get and scurry; For I've got a story that's bad,—and worse, I've got a warrant: G-d d—n it, hurry!"

Too late! they had seen him cross the hill; I ran to their tent and found them lying Dead in each other's arms, and still Clasping the drug they had taken flying. And there lay their secret cold and bare, Their life, their trial—the old, old story! For the sweet blue eyes and the golden hair Was a WOMAN'S shame and a WOMAN'S glory.

"Who were they?" Ask no more, or ask The sun that visits their grave so lightly; Ask of the whispering reeds, or task The mourning crickets that chirrup nightly. All of their life but its love forgot, Everything tender and soft and mystic, These are our Babes in the Woods,—you've got, Well—human nature—that's characteristic.



THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE

It was noon by the sun; we had finished our game, And was passin' remarks goin' back to our claim; Jones was countin' his chips, Smith relievin' his mind Of ideas that a "straight" should beat "three of a kind," When Johnson of Elko came gallopin' down, With a look on his face 'twixt a grin and a frown, And he calls, "Drop your shovels and face right about, For them Chinees from Murphy's are cleanin' us out— With their ching-a-ring-chow And their chic-colorow They're bent upon making No slouch of a row."

Then Jones—my own pardner—looks up with a sigh; "It's your wash-bill," sez he, and I answers, "You lie!" But afore he could draw or the others could arm, Up tumbles the Bates boys, who heard the alarm. And a yell from the hill-top and roar of a gong, Mixed up with remarks like "Hi! yi! Chang-a-wong," And bombs, shells, and crackers, that crashed through the trees, Revealed in their war-togs four hundred Chinees! Four hundred Chinee; We are eight, don't ye see! That made a square fifty To just one o' we.

They were dressed in their best, but I grieve that that same Was largely made up of our own, to their shame; And my pardner's best shirt and his trousers were hung On a spear, and above him were tauntingly swung; While that beggar, Chey Lee, like a conjurer sat Pullin' out eggs and chickens from Johnson's best hat; And Bates's game rooster was part of their "loot," And all of Smith's pigs were skyugled to boot; But the climax was reached and I like to have died When my demijohn, empty, came down the hillside,— Down the hillside— What once held the pride Of Robertson County Pitched down the hillside!

Then we axed for a parley. When out of the din To the front comes a-rockin' that heathen, Ah Sin! "You owe flowty dollee—me washee you camp, You catchee my washee—me catchee no stamp; One dollar hap dozen, me no catchee yet, Now that flowty dollee—no hab?—how can get? Me catchee you piggee—me sellee for cash, It catchee me licee—you catchee no 'hash;' Me belly good Sheliff—me lebbee when can, Me allee same halp pin as Melican man! But Melican man He washee him pan On BOTTOM side hillee And catchee—how can?"

"Are we men?" says Joe Johnson, "and list to this jaw, Without process of warrant or color of law? Are we men or—a-chew!"—here be gasped in his speech, For a stink-pot had fallen just out of his reach. "Shall we stand here as idle, and let Asia pour Her barbaric hordes on this civilized shore? Has the White Man no country? Are we left in the lurch? And likewise what's gone of the Established Church? One man to four hundred is great odds, I own, But this 'yer's a White Man—I plays it alone!" And he sprang up the hillside—to stop him none dare— Till a yell from the top told a "White Man was there!" A White Man was there! We prayed he might spare Those misguided heathens The few clothes they wear.

They fled, and he followed, but no matter where; They fled to escape him,—the "White Man was there,"— Till we missed first his voice on the pine-wooded slope, And we knew for the heathen henceforth was no hope; And the yells they grew fainter, when Petersen said, "It simply was human to bury his dead." And then, with slow tread, We crept up, in dread, But found nary mortal there, Living or dead.

But there was his trail, and the way that they came, And yonder, no doubt, he was bagging his game. When Jones drops his pickaxe, and Thompson says "Shoo!" And both of 'em points to a cage of bamboo Hanging down from a tree, with a label that swung Conspicuous, with letters in some foreign tongue, Which, when freely translated, the same did appear Was the Chinese for saying, "A White Man is here!" And as we drew near, In anger and fear, Bound hand and foot, Johnson Looked down with a leer!

In his mouth was an opium pipe—which was why He leered at us so with a drunken-like eye! They had shaved off his eyebrows, and tacked on a cue, They had painted his face of a coppery hue, And rigged him all up in a heathenish suit, Then softly departed, each man with his "loot." Yes, every galoot, And Ah Sin, to boot, Had left him there hanging Like ripening fruit.

At a mass meeting held up at Murphy's next day There were seventeen speakers and each had his say; There were twelve resolutions that instantly passed, And each resolution was worse than the last; There were fourteen petitions, which, granting the same, Will determine what Governor Murphy's shall name; And the man from our district that goes up next year Goes up on one issue—that's patent and clear: "Can the work of a mean, Degraded, unclean Believer in Buddha Be held as a lien?"



TRUTHFUL JAMES TO THE EDITOR

(YREKA, 1873)

Which it is not my style To produce needless pain By statements that rile Or that go 'gin the grain, But here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye has no skelp on his brain!

On that Caucasian head There is no crown of hair; It has gone, it has fled! And Echo sez "Where?" And I asks, "Is this Nation a White Man's, and is generally things on the square?"

She was known in the camp As "Nye's other squaw," And folks of that stamp Hez no rights in the law, But is treacherous, sinful, and slimy, as Nye might hev well known before.

But she said that she knew Where the Injins was hid, And the statement was true, For it seemed that she did, Since she led William where he was covered by seventeen Modocs, and— slid!

Then they reached for his hair; But Nye sez, "By the law Of nations, forbear! I surrenders—no more: And I looks to be treated,—you hear me?—as a pris'ner, a pris'ner of war!"

But Captain Jack rose And he sez, "It's too thin! Such statements as those It's too late to begin. There's a MODOC INDICTMENT agin you, O Paleface, and you're goin' in!

"You stole Schonchin's squaw In the year sixty-two; It was in sixty-four That Long Jack you went through, And you burned Nasty Jim's rancheria, and his wives and his papooses too.

"This gun in my hand Was sold me by you 'Gainst the law of the land, And I grieves it is true!" And he buried his face in his blanket and wept as he hid it from view.

"But you're tried and condemned, And skelping's your doom," And he paused and he hemmed— But why this resume? He was skelped 'gainst the custom of nations, and cut off like a rose in its bloom.

So I asks without guile, And I trusts not in vain, If this is the style That is going to obtain— If here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye with no skelp on his brain?



AN IDYL OF THE ROAD

(SIERRAS, 1876)

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

First Tourist Second Tourist Yuba Bill, Driver A Stranger

FIRST TOURIST

Look how the upland plunges into cover, Green where the pines fade sullenly away. Wonderful those olive depths! and wonderful, moreover—

SECOND TOURIST

The red dust that rises in a suffocating way.

FIRST TOURIST

Small is the soul that cannot soar above it, Cannot but cling to its ever-kindred clay: Better be yon bird, that seems to breathe and love it—

SECOND TOURIST

Doubtless a hawk or some other bird of prey. Were we, like him, as sure of a dinner That on our stomachs would comfortably stay; Or were the fried ham a shade or two just thinner, That must confront us at closing of the day: Then might you sing like Theocritus or Virgil, Then might we each make a metrical essay; But verse just now—I must protest and urge—ill Fits a digestion by travel led astray.

CHORUS OF PASSENGERS

Speed, Yuba Bill! oh, speed us to our dinner! Speed to the sunset that beckons far away.

SECOND TOURIST

William of Yuba, O Son of Nimshi, hearken! Check thy profanity, but not thy chariot's play. Tell us, O William, before the shadows darken, Where, and, oh! how we shall dine? O William, say!

YUBA BILL

It ain't my fault, nor the Kumpeney's, I reckon, Ye can't get ez square meal ez any on the Bay, Up at you place, whar the senset 'pears to beckon— Ez thet sharp allows in his airy sort o' way. Thar woz a place wor yer hash ye might hev wrestled, Kept by a woman ez chipper ez a jay— Warm in her breast all the morning sunshine nestled; Red on her cheeks all the evening's sunshine lay.

SECOND TOURIST

Praise is but breath, O chariot compeller! Yet of that hash we would bid you farther say.

YUBA BILL

Thar woz a snipe—like you, a fancy tourist— Kem to that ranch ez if to make a stay, Ran off the gal, and ruined jist the purist Critter that lived—

STRANGER (quietly)

You're a liar, driver!

YUBA BILL (reaching for his revolver).

Eh! Here take my lines, somebody—

CHORUS OF PASSENGERS

Hush, boys! listen! Inside there's a lady! Remember! No affray!

YUBA BILL

Ef that man lives, the fault ain't mine or his'n.

STRANGER

Wait for the sunset that beckons far away, Then—as you will! But, meantime, friends, believe me, Nowhere on earth lives a purer woman; nay, If my perceptions do surely not deceive me, She is the lady we have inside to-day. As for the man—you see that blackened pine tree, Up which the green vine creeps heavenward away! He was that scarred trunk, and she the vine that sweetly Clothed him with life again, and lifted—

SECOND TOURIST

Yes; but pray How know you this?

STRANGER

She's my wife.

YUBA BILL

The h-ll you say!



THOMPSON OF ANGELS

It is the story of Thompson—of Thompson, the hero of Angels. Frequently drunk was Thompson, but always polite to the stranger; Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his revolver; Great the mortality incident on that lightness and freedom.

Yet not happy or gay was Thompson, the hero of Angels; Often spoke to himself in accents of anguish and sorrow, "Why do I make the graves of the frivolous youth who in folly Thoughtlessly pass my revolver, forgetting its lightness and freedom?

"Why in my daily walks does the surgeon drop his left eyelid, The undertaker smile, and the sculptor of gravestone marbles Lean on his chisel and gaze? I care not o'er much for attention; Simple am I in my ways, save but for this lightness and freedom."

So spake that pensive man—this Thompson, the hero of Angels, Bitterly smiled to himself, as he strode through the chapparal musing. "Why, oh, why?" echoed the pines in the dark olive depth far resounding. "Why, indeed?" whispered the sage brush that bent 'neath his feet non-elastic.

Pleasant indeed was that morn that dawned o'er the barroom at Angels, Where in their manhood's prime was gathered the pride of the hamlet. Six "took sugar in theirs," and nine to the barkeeper lightly Smiled as they said, "Well, Jim, you can give us our regular fusil."

Suddenly as the gray hawk swoops down on the barnyard, alighting Where, pensively picking their corn, the favorite pullets are gathered, So in that festive bar-room dropped Thompson, the hero of Angels, Grasping his weapon dread with his pristine lightness and freedom.

Never a word he spoke; divesting himself of his garments, Danced the war-dance of the playful yet truculent Modoc, Uttered a single whoop, and then, in the accents of challenge, Spake: "Oh, behold in me a Crested Jay Hawk of the mountain."

Then rose a pallid man—a man sick with fever and ague; Small was he, and his step was tremulous, weak, and uncertain; Slowly a Derringer drew, and covered the person of Thompson; Said in his feeblest pipe, "I'm a Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley."

As on its native plains the kangaroo, startled by hunters, Leaps with successive bounds, and hurries away to the thickets, So leaped the Crested Hawk, and quietly hopping behind him Ran, and occasionally shot, that Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley.

Vain at the festive bar still lingered the people of Angels, Hearing afar in the woods the petulant pop of the pistol; Never again returned the Crested Jay Hawk of the mountains, Never again was seen the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley.

Yet in the hamlet of Angels, when truculent speeches are uttered, When bloodshed and life alone will atone for some trifling misstatement, Maidens and men in their prime recall the last hero of Angels, Think of and vainly regret the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley!



THE HAWK'S NEST

(SIERRAS)

We checked our pace, the red road sharply rounding; We heard the troubled flow Of the dark olive depths of pines resounding A thousand feet below.

Above the tumult of the canyon lifted, The gray hawk breathless hung, Or on the hill a winged shadow drifted Where furze and thorn-bush clung;

Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed With many a seam and scar; Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed,— A mole-hill seen so far.

We looked in silence down across the distant Unfathomable reach: A silence broken by the guide's consistent And realistic speech.

"Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters For telling him he lied; Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos Across the Long Divide.

"We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden, And 'cross the ford below, And up this canyon (Peters' brother leadin'), And me and Clark and Joe.

"He fou't us game: somehow I disremember Jest how the thing kem round; Some say 'twas wadding, some a scattered ember From fires on the ground.

"But in one minute all the hill below him Was just one sheet of flame; Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him, And,—well, the dog was game!

"He made no sign: the fires of hell were round him, The pit of hell below. We sat and waited, but we never found him; And then we turned to go.

"And then—you see that rock that's grown so bristly With chapparal and tan— Suthin crep' out: it might hev been a grizzly It might hev been a man;

"Suthin that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and shouted In smoke and dust and flame; Suthin that sprang into the depths about it, Grizzly or man,—but game!

"That's all! Well, yes, it does look rather risky, And kinder makes one queer And dizzy looking down. A drop of whiskey Ain't a bad thing right here!"



HER LETTER

I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe even YOU would admire,— It cost a cool thousand in France; I'm be-diamonded out of all reason, My hair is done up in a cue: In short, sir, "the belle of the season" Is wasting an hour upon you.

A dozen engagements I've broken; I left in the midst of a set; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits—on the stairs—for me yet. They say he'll be rich,—when he grows up,— And then he adores me indeed; And you, sir, are turning your nose up, Three thousand miles off as you read.

"And how do I like my position?" "And what do I think of New York?" "And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?" "And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?" "And aren't they a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"

Well, yes,—if you saw us out driving Each day in the Park, four-in-hand, If you saw poor dear mamma contriving To look supernaturally grand,— If you saw papa's picture, as taken By Brady, and tinted at that, You'd never suspect he sold bacon And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting In the glare of the grand chandelier,— In the bustle and glitter befitting The "finest soiree of the year,"— In the mists of a gaze de Chambery, And the hum of the smallest of talk,— Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry," And the dance that we had on "The Fork;"

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster Of flags festooned over the wall; Of the candles that shed their soft lustre And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis; And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee;

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow; Of that ride—that to me was the rarest; Of—the something you said at the gate. Ah! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress To "the best-paying lead in the State."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money, That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing! (Mamma says my taste still is low), Instead of my triumphs reciting, I'm spooning on Joseph,—heigh-ho! And I'm to be "finished" by travel,— Whatever's the meaning of that. Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good-night!—here's the end of my paper; Good-night!—if the longitude please,— For maybe, while wasting my taper, YOUR sun's climbing over the trees. But know, if you haven't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, And you've struck it,—on Poverty Flat.



HIS ANSWER TO "HER LETTER"

(REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES)

Being asked by an intimate party,— Which the same I would term as a friend,— Though his health it were vain to call hearty, Since the mind to deceit it might lend; For his arm it was broken quite recent, And there's something gone wrong with his lung,— Which is why it is proper and decent I should write what he runs off his tongue.

First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter To the end,—and "the end came too soon;" That a "slight illness kept him your debtor," (Which for weeks he was wild as a loon); That "his spirits are buoyant as yours is;" That with you, Miss, he "challenges Fate," (Which the language that invalid uses At times it were vain to relate).

And he says "that the mountains are fairer For once being held in your thought;" That each rock "holds a wealth that is rarer Than ever by gold-seeker sought." (Which are words he would put in these pages, By a party not given to guile; Though the claim not, at date, paying wages, Might produce in the sinful a smile.)

He remembers the ball at the Ferry, And the ride, and the gate, and the vow, And the rose that you gave him,—that very Same rose he is "treasuring now." (Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk, Miss, And insists on his legs being free And his language to me from his bunk, Miss, Is frequent and painful and free.)

He hopes you are wearing no willows, But are happy and gay all the while; That he knows—(which this dodging of pillows Imparts but small ease to the style, And the same you will pardon)—he knows, Miss, That, though parted by many a mile, Yet, were HE lying under the snows, Miss, They'd melt into tears at your smile.

And "you'll still think of him in your pleasures, In your brief twilight dreams of the past; In this green laurel spray that he treasures,— It was plucked where your parting was last; In this specimen,—but a small trifle,— It will do for a pin for your shawl." (Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle, Was his last week's "clean up,"—and HIS ALL.)

He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss, Were it not that I scorn to deny That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss, In view that his fever was high; But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive. And now, my respects, Miss, to you; Which my language, although comprehensive, Might seem to be freedom, is true.

For I have a small favor to ask you, As concerns a bull-pup, and the same,— If the duty would not overtask you,— You would please to procure for me, GAME; And send per express to the Flat, Miss,— For they say York is famed for the breed, Which, though words of deceit may be that, Miss, I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.

P.S.—Which this same interfering Into other folks' way I despise; Yet if it so be I was hearing That it's just empty pockets as lies Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers That, having no family claims, Here's my pile, which it's six hundred dollars, As is YOURS, with respects, TRUTHFUL JAMES.



"THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS"

(MUD FLAT, 1860)

So you're back from your travels, old fellow, And you left but a twelvemonth ago; You've hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon, Eugenie, and kissed the Pope's toe. By Jove, it is perfectly stunning, Astounding,—and all that, you know; Yes, things are about as you left them In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago.

The boys!—they're all right,—Oh! Dick Ashley, He's buried somewhere in the snow; He was lost on the Summit last winter, And Bob has a hard row to hoe. You know that he's got the consumption? You didn't! Well, come, that's a go; I certainly wrote you at Baden,— Dear me! that was six months ago.

I got all your outlandish letters, All stamped by some foreign P. O. I handed myself to Miss Mary That sketch of a famous chateau. Tom Saunders is living at 'Frisco,— They say that he cuts quite a show. You didn't meet Euchre-deck Billy Anywhere on your road to Cairo?

So you thought of the rusty old cabin, The pines, and the valley below, And heard the North Fork of the Yuba As you stood on the banks of the Po? 'Twas just like your romance, old fellow; But now there is standing a row Of stores on the site of the cabin That you lived in a twelvemonth ago.

But it's jolly to see you, old fellow,— To think it's a twelvemonth ago! And you have seen Louis Napoleon, And look like a Johnny Crapaud. Come in. You will surely see Mary,— You know we are married. What, no? Oh, ay! I forgot there was something Between you a twelvemonth ago.



FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES

(NYE'S FORD, STANISLAUS, 1870)

Do I sleep? do I dream? Do I wonder and doubt? Are things what they seem? Or is visions about? Is our civilization a failure? Or is the Caucasian played out?

Which expressions are strong; Yet would feebly imply Some account of a wrong— Not to call it a lie— As was worked off on William, my pardner, And the same being W. Nye.

He came down to the Ford On the very same day Of that lottery drawed By those sharps at the Bay; And he says to me, "Truthful, how goes it?" I replied, "It is far, far from gay;

"For the camp has gone wild On this lottery game, And has even beguiled 'Injin Dick' by the same." Then said Nye to me, "Injins is pizen: But what is his number, eh, James?"

I replied, "7, 2, 9, 8, 4, is his hand;" When he started, and drew Out a list, which he scanned; Then he softly went for his revolver With language I cannot command.

Then I said, "William Nye!" But he turned upon me, And the look in his eye Was quite painful to see; And he says, "You mistake; this poor Injin I protects from such sharps as YOU be!"

I was shocked and withdrew; But I grieve to relate, When he next met my view Injin Dick was his mate; And the two around town was a-lying In a frightfully dissolute state.

Which the war dance they had Round a tree at the Bend Was a sight that was sad; And it seemed that the end Would not justify the proceedings, As I quiet remarked to a friend.

For that Injin he fled The next day to his band; And we found William spread Very loose on the strand, With a peaceful-like smile on his features, And a dollar greenback in his hand;

Which the same, when rolled out, We observed, with surprise, Was what he, no doubt, Thought the number and prize— Them figures in red in the corner, Which the number of notes specifies.

Was it guile, or a dream? Is it Nye that I doubt? Are things what they seem? Or is visions about? Is our civilization a failure? Or is the Caucasian played out?



AFTER THE ACCIDENT

(MOUTH OF THE SHAFT)

What I want is my husband, sir,— And if you're a man, sir, You'll give me an answer,— Where is my Joe?

Penrhyn, sir, Joe,— Caernarvonshire. Six months ago Since we came here— Eh?—Ah, you know!

Well, I am quiet And still, But I must stand here, And will! Please, I'll be strong, If you'll just let me wait Inside o' that gate Till the news comes along.

"Negligence!"— That was the cause!— Butchery! Are there no laws,— Laws to protect such as we?

Well, then! I won't raise my voice. There, men! I won't make no noise, Only you just let me be.

Four, only four—did he say— Saved! and the other ones?—Eh? Why do they call? Why are they all Looking and coming this way?

What's that?—a message? I'll take it. I know his wife, sir, I'll break it. "Foreman!" Ay, ay! "Out by and by,— Just saved his life. Say to his wife Soon he'll be free." Will I?—God bless you! It's me!



THE GHOST THAT JIM SAW

Why, as to that, said the engineer, Ghosts ain't things we are apt to fear; Spirits don't fool with levers much, And throttle-valves don't take to such; And as for Jim, What happened to him Was one half fact, and t'other half whim!

Running one night on the line, he saw A house—as plain as the moral law— Just by the moonlit bank, and thence Came a drunken man with no more sense Than to drop on the rail Flat as a flail, As Jim drove by with the midnight mail.

Down went the patents—steam reversed. Too late! for there came a "thud." Jim cursed As the fireman, there in the cab with him, Kinder stared in the face of Jim, And says, "What now?" Says Jim, "What now! I've just run over a man,—that's how!"

The fireman stared at Jim. They ran Back, but they never found house nor man,— Nary a shadow within a mile. Jim turned pale, but he tried to smile, Then on he tore Ten mile or more, In quicker time than he'd made afore.

Would you believe it! the very next night Up rose that house in the moonlight white, Out comes the chap and drops as before, Down goes the brake and the rest encore; And so, in fact, Each night that act Occurred, till folks swore Jim was cracked.

Humph! let me see; it's a year now, 'most, That I met Jim, East, and says, "How's your ghost?" "Gone," says Jim; "and more, it's plain That ghost don't trouble me again. I thought I shook That ghost when I took A place on an Eastern line,—but look!

"What should I meet, the first trip out, But the very house we talked about, And the selfsame man! 'Well,' says I, 'I guess It's time to stop this 'yer foolishness.' So I crammed on steam, When there came a scream From my fireman, that jest broke my dream:

"'You've killed somebody!' Says I, 'Not much! I've been thar often, and thar ain't no such, And now I'll prove it!' Back we ran, And—darn my skin!—but thar WAS a man On the rail, dead, Smashed in the head!— Now I call that meanness!" That's all Jim said.



"SEVENTY-NINE"

(MR. INTERVIEWER INTERVIEWED)

Know me next time when you see me, won't you, old smarty? Oh, I mean YOU, old figger-head,—just the same party! Take out your pensivil, d—n you; sharpen it, do! Any complaints to make? Lots of 'em—one of 'em's YOU.

You! who are YOU, anyhow, goin' round in that sneakin' way? Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say? Look at it; don't it look pooty? Oh, grin, and be d—d to you, do! But if I had you this side o' that gratin,' I'd just make it lively for you.

How did I get in here? Well what 'ud you give to know? 'Twasn't by sneakin' round where I hadn't no call to go; 'Twasn't by hangin' round a-spyin' unfortnet men. Grin! but I'll stop your jaw if ever you do that agen.

Why don't you say suthin, blast you? Speak your mind if you dare. Ain't I a bad lot, sonny? Say it, and call it square. Hain't got no tongue, hey, hev ye? Oh, guard! here's a little swell A cussin' and swearin' and yellin', and bribin' me not to tell.

There! I thought that 'ud fetch ye! And you want to know my name? "Seventy-nine" they call me, but that is their little game; For I'm werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can understand, And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in the land.

For 'twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like me; And the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they couldn't agree; And I sed to the judge, sez I,—Oh, grin! it's all right, my son! But you're a werry lively young pup, and you ain't to be played upon!

Wot's that you got?—tobacco? I'm cussed but I thought 'twas a tract. Thank ye! A chap t'other day—now, lookee, this is a fact— Slings me a tract on the evils o' keepin' bad company, As if all the saints was howlin' to stay here along o' we.

No, I hain't no complaints. Stop, yes; do you see that chap,— Him standin' over there, a-hidin' his eyes in his cap? Well, that man's stumick is weak, and he can't stand the pris'n fare; For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar it ain't nowhere.

Perhaps it's his bringin' up; but he's sickenin' day by day, And he doesn't take no food, and I'm seein' him waste away. And it isn't the thing to see; for, whatever he's been and done, Starvation isn't the plan as he's to be saved upon.

For he cannot rough it like me; and he hasn't the stamps, I guess, To buy him his extry grub outside o' the pris'n mess. And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I've been sorter free, Would—thank you! But, say! look here! Oh, blast it! don't give it to ME!

Don't you give it to me; now, don't ye, don't ye, DON'T! You think it's a put-up job; so I'll thank ye, sir, if you won't. But hand him the stamps yourself: why, he isn't even my pal; And, if it's a comfort to you, why, I don't intend that he shall.



THE STAGE-DRIVER'S STORY

It was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his back to the wheelers, Quietly flecking his whip, and turning his quid of tobacco; While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the moonlight, We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco descending.

"Danger! Sir, I believe you,—indeed, I may say, on that subject, You your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a wager. I have seen danger? Oh, no! not me, sir, indeed, I assure you: 'Twas only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in yon wagon.

"It was the Geiger Grade, a mile and a half from the summit: Black as your hat was the night, and never a star in the heavens. Thundering down the grade, the gravel and stones we sent flying Over the precipice side,—a thousand feet plumb to the bottom.

"Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling and creaking, Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank of the canyon; Then, looking up the road, I saw, in the distance behind me, The off hind wheel of the coach, just loosed from its axle, and following.

"One glance alone I gave, then gathered together my ribbons, Shouted, and flung them, outspread, on the straining necks of my cattle; Screamed at the top of my voice, and lashed the air in my frenzy, While down the Geiger Grade, on THREE wheels, the vehicle thundered.

"Speed was our only chance, when again came the ominous rattle: Crack, and another wheel slipped away, and was lost in the darkness. TWO only now were left; yet such was our fearful momentum, Upright, erect, and sustained on TWO wheels, the vehicle thundered.

"As some huge boulder, unloosed from its rocky shelf on the mountain, Drives before it the hare and the timorous squirrel, far leaping, So down the Geiger Grade rushed the Pioneer coach, and before it Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance of the danger impending.

"But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to the level, Slipped from its axle a wheel; so that, to be plain in my statement, A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the distance may be, We traveled upon ONE wheel, until we drove up to the station.

"Then, sir, we sank in a heap; but, picking myself from the ruins, I heard a noise up the grade; and looking, I saw in the distance The three wheels following still, like moons on the horizon whirling, Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at the side of the station.

"This is my story, sir; a trifle, indeed, I assure you. Much more, perchance, might be said—but I hold him of all men most lightly Who swerves from the truth in his tale. No, thank you— Well, since you ARE pressing, Perhaps I don't care if I do: you may give me the same, Jim,—no sugar."



A QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE

REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES

It was Andrew Jackson Sutter who, despising Mr. Cutter for remarks he heard him utter in debate upon the floor, Swung him up into the skylight, in the peaceful, pensive twilight, and then keerlessly proceeded, makin' no account what WE did— To wipe up with his person casual dust upon the floor.

Now a square fight never frets me, nor unpleasantness upsets me, but the simple thing that gets me—now the job is done and gone, And we've come home free and merry from the peaceful cemetery, leavin' Cutter there with Sutter—that mebbee just a stutter On the part of Mr. Cutter caused the loss we deeply mourn.

Some bashful hesitation, just like spellin' punctooation—might have worked an aggravation on to Sutter's mournful mind, For the witnesses all vary ez to wot was said and nary a galoot will toot his horn except the way he is inclined.

But they all allow that Sutter had begun a kind of mutter, when uprose Mr. Cutter with a sickening kind of ease, And proceeded then to wade in to the subject then prevadin': "Is Profanity degradin'?" in words like unto these:

"Onlike the previous speaker, Mr. Sutter of Yreka, he was but a humble seeker—and not like him—a cuss"— It was here that Mr. Sutter softly reached for Mr. Cutter, when the latter with a stutter said: "ac-customed to discuss."

Then Sutter he rose grimly, and sorter smilin' dimly bowed onto the Chairman primly—(just like Cutter ez could be!) Drawled "he guessed he must fall—back—as—Mr. Cutter owned the pack—as—he just had played the—Jack—as—" (here Cutter's gun went crack! as Mr. Sutter gasped and ended) "every man can see!"

But William Henry Pryor—just in range of Sutter's fire—here evinced a wild desire to do somebody harm, And in the general scrimmage no one thought if Sutter's "image" was a misplaced punctooation—like the hole in Pryor's arm.

For we all waltzed in together, never carin' to ask whether it was Sutter or was Cutter we woz tryin' to abate. But we couldn't help perceivin', when we took to inkstand heavin', that the process was relievin' to the sharpness of debate,

So we've come home free and merry from the peaceful cemetery, and I make no commentary on these simple childish games; Things is various and human—and the man ain't born of woman who is free to intermeddle with his pal's intents and aims.



THE THOUGHT-READER OF ANGELS

REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES

We hev tumbled ez dust Or ez worms of the yearth; Wot we looked for hez bust! We are objects of mirth! They have played us—old Pards of the river!—they hev played us for all we was worth!

Was it euchre or draw Cut us off in our bloom? Was it faro, whose law Is uncertain ez doom? Or an innocent "Jack pot" that—opened—was to us ez the jaws of the tomb?

It was nary! It kem With some sharps from the States. Ez folks sez, "All things kem To the fellers ez waits;" And we'd waited six months for that suthin'—had me and Bill Nye—in such straits!

And it kem. It was small; It was dream-like and weak; It wore store clothes—that's all That we knew, so to speak; But it called itself "Billson, Thought-Reader"—which ain't half a name for its cheek!

He could read wot you thought, And he knew wot you did; He could find things untaught, No matter whar hid; And he went to it, blindfold and smiling, being led by the hand like a kid!

Then I glanced at Bill Nye, And I sez, without pride, "You'll excuse US. We've nigh On to nothin' to hide; But if some gent will lend us a twenty, we'll hide it whar folks shall decide."

It was Billson's own self Who forked over the gold, With a smile. "Thar's the pelf," He remarked. "I make bold To advance it, and go twenty better that I'll find it without being told."