 | Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches |  |
THE POET OF SIERRA FLAT.
AS the enterprising editor of the “Sierra Flat
Record” stood at his case setting type for
his next week's paper, he could not help hearing
the woodpeckers who were busy on the roof above
his head. It occurred to him that possibly the
birds had not yet learned to recognize in the rude
structure any improvement on nature, and this idea
pleased him so much that he incorporated it in the
editorial article which he was then doubly composing.
For the editor was also printer of the “Record”;
and although that remarkable journal was
reputed to exert a power felt through all Calaveras
and a greater part of Tuolumne County, strict
economy was one of the conditions of its beneficent
existence.
Thus preoccupied, he was startled by the sudden
irruption of a small roll of manuscript, which was
thrown through the open door and fell at his feet.
He walked quickly to the threshold and looked
down the tangled trail which led to the high-road.
But there was nothing to suggest the presence of
his mysterious contributor. A hare limped slowly
away, a green-and-gold lizard paused upon a pine
complete had been his sylvan seclusion, that he
found it difficult to connect any human agency
with the act; rather the hare seemed to have an
inexpressibly guilty look, the woodpeckers to maintain
a significant silence, and the lizard to be conscience-stricken
into stone.
An examination of the manuscript, however,
corrected this injustice to defenceless nature. It
was evidently of human origin, — being verse, and
of exceeding bad quality. The editor laid it
aside. As he did so he thought he saw a face at
the window. Sallying out in some indignation, he
penetrated the surrounding thicket in every direction,
but his search was as fruitless as before. The
poet, if it were he, was gone.
A few days after this the editorial seclusion was
invaded by voices of alternate expostulation and
entreaty. Stepping to the door, the editor was
amazed at beholding Mr. Morgan McCorkle, a well-known
citizen of Angelo, and a subscriber to the
“Record,” in the act of urging, partly by force and
partly by argument, an awkward young man toward
the building. When he had finally effected his
object, and, as it were, safely landed his prize in a
chair, Mr. McCorkle took off his hat, carefully
wiped the narrow isthmus of forehead which divided
his black brows from his stubby hair, and,
with an explanatory wave of his hand toward his
cussedest fool you ever seed!”
Accepting the editor's smile as a recognition of
the introduction, Mr. McCorkle panted and went
on: “Did n't want to come! `Mister Editor don't
want to see me, Morg,' sez he. `Milt,' sez I, `he
do; a borned poet like you and a gifted genius like
he oughter come together sociable!' And I fetched
him. Ah, will yer?” The born poet had, after
exhibiting signs of great distress, started to run.
But Mr. McCorkle was down upon him instantly,
seizing him by his long linen coat, and settled him
back in his chair. “'T ain't no use stampeding.
Yer ye are and yer ye stays. For yer a borned
poet, — ef ye are as shy as a jackass rabbit. Look
at 'im now!”
He certainly was not an attractive picture.
There was hardly a notable feature in his weak
face, except his eyes, which were moist and shy
and not unlike the animal to which Mr. McCorkle
had compared him. It was the face that the
editor had seen at the window.
“Knowed him for fower year, — since he war a
boy,” continued Mr. McCorkle in a loud whisper.
“Allers the same, bless you! Can jerk a rhyme as
easy as turnin' jack. Never had any eddication;
lived out in Missooray all his life. But he 's chock
full o' poetry. On'y this mornin' sez I to him, —
he camps along o' me, — `Milt!' sez I, `are breakfast
peart and chipper, `The breakfast it is ready, and
the birds is singing free, and it 's risin' in the dawnin'
light is happiness to me!' When a man,” said
Mr. McCorkle, dropping his voice with deep solemnity,
“gets off things like them, without any
call to do it, and handlin' flapjacks over a cook-stove
at the same time, — that man 's a borned
poet.”
There was an awkward pause. Mr. McCorkle
beamed patronizingly on his protégé. The born
poet looked as if he were meditating another flight,
— not a metaphorical one. The editor asked if he
could do anything for them.
“In course you can,” responded Mr. McCorkle,
“that 's jest it. Milt, where 's that poetry?”
The editor's countenance fell as the poet produced
from his pocket a roll of manuscript. He,
however, took it mechanically and glanced over it.
It was evidently a duplicate of the former mysterious
contribution.
The editor then spoke briefly but earnestly. I
regret that I cannot recall his exact words, but it
appeared that never before, in the history of the
“Record,” had the pressure been so great upon its
columns. Matters of paramount importance, deeply
affecting the material progress of Sierra, questions
touching the absolute integrity of Calaveras
and Tuolumne as social communities, were even
elapse before that pressure would be removed, and
the “Record” could grapple with any but the sternest
of topics. Again, the editor had noticed with
pain the absolute decline of poetry in the foot-hills
of the Sierras. Even the works of Byron and
Moore attracted no attention in Dutch Flat, and a
prejudice seemed to exist against Tennyson in
Grass Valley. But the editor was not without
hope for the future. In the course of four or five
years, when the country was settled, —
“What would be the cost to print this yer?”
interrupted Mr. McCorkle, quietly.
“About fifty dollars, as an advertisement,” responded
the editor with cheerful alacrity.
Mr. McCorkle placed the sum in the editor's
hand. “Yer see thet 's what I sez to Milt, `Milt,'
sez I, `pay as you go, for you are a borned poet.
Hevin no call to write, but doin' it free and spontaneous
like, in course you pays. Thet 's why Mr.
Editor never printed your poetry.”'
“What name shall I put to it?” asked the
editor.
“Milton.”
It was the first word that the born poet had
spoken during the interview, and his voice was so
very sweet and musical that the editor looked at
him curiously, and wondered if he had a sister.
“Milton; is that all?”
“Thet 's his furst name,” exclaimed Mr. McCorkle.
The editor here suggested that as there had been
another poet of that name —
“Milt might be took for him! Thet 's bad,”
reflected Mr. McCorkle with simple gravity.
“Well, put down his hull name, — Milton Chubbuck.”
The editor made a note of the fact. “I 'll set it
up now,” he said. This was also a hint that the
interview was ended. The poet and patron, arm
in arm, drew towards the door. “In next week's
paper,” said the editor, smilingly, in answer to the
childlike look of inquiry in the eyes of the poet,
and in another moment they were gone.
The editor was as good as his word. He straightway
betook himself to his case, and, unrolling the
manuscript, began his task. The woodpeckers on
the roof recommenced theirs, and in a few moments
the former sylvan seclusion was restored. There
was no sound in the barren, barn-like room but the
birds above, and below the click of the composingrule
as the editor marshalled the types into lines
in his stick, and arrayed them in solid column on
the galley. Whatever might have been his opinion
of the copy before him, there was no indication of
it in his face, which wore the stolid indifference of
his craft. Perhaps this was unfortunate, for as the
day wore on and the level rays of the sun began
discovered an anxious ambushed figure drawn up
beside the editor's window, — a figure that had sat
there motionless for hours. Within, the editor
worked on as steadily and impassively as Fate.
And without, the born poet of Sierra Flat sat and
watched him as waiting its decree.
The effect of the poem on Sierra Flat was remarkable
and unprecedented. The absolute vileness
of its doggerel, the gratuitous imbecility of
its thought, and above all the crowning audacity
of the fact that it was the work of a citizen and
published in the county paper, brought it instantly
into popularity. For many months Calaveras had
languished for a sensation; since the last vigilance
committee nothing had transpired to dispel the
listless ennui begotten of stagnant business and
growing civilization. In more prosperous moments
the office of the “Record” would have been
simply gutted and the editor deported; at present
the paper was in such demand that the edition
was speedily exhausted. In brief, the poem of
Mr. Milton Chubbuck came like a special providence
to Sierra Flat. It was read by camp-fires,
in lonely cabins, in flaring bar-rooms and noisy
saloons, and declaimed from the boxes of stagecoaches.
It was sung in Poker Flat with the addition
of a local chorus, and danced as an unhallowed
One Horse Gulch, known as “The Festive Stags
of Calaveras.” Some unhappy ambiguities of expression
gave rise to many new readings, notes,
and commentaries, which, I regret to state, were
more often marked by ingenuity than delicacy of
thought or expression.
Never before did poet acquire such sudden local
reputation. From the seclusion of McCorkle's
cabin and the obscurity of culinary labors, he was
haled forth into the glowing sunshine of Fame.
The name of Chubbuck was written in letters of
chalk on unpainted walls, and carved with a pick
on the sides of tunnels. A drink known variously
as “The Chubbuck Tranquillizer,” or “The Chubbuck
Exalter,” was dispensed at the bars. For
some weeks a rude design for a Chubbuck statue,
made up of illustrations from circus and melodeon
posters, representing the genius of Calaveras in
brief skirts on a flying steed in the act of crowning
the poet Chubbuck, was visible at Keeler's
Ferry. The poet himself was overborne with invitations
to drink and extravagant congratulations.
The meeting between Colonel Starbottle of Siskyion
and Chubbuck, as previously arranged by our
“Boston,” late of Roaring Camp, is said to have
been indescribably affecting. The Colonel embraced
him unsteadily. “I could not return to
my constituents at Siskyion, sir, if this hand,
the lamented Poe, should not have been honored
by the touch of the godlike Chubbuck. Gentlemen,
American literature is looking up. Thank
you, I will take sugar in mine.” It was “Boston”
who indited letters of congratulations from H. W.
Longfellow, Tennyson, and Browning, to Mr. Chubbuck,
deposited them in the Sierra Flat post-office,
and obligingly consented to dictate the replies.
The simple faith and unaffected delight with
which these manifestations were received by the
poet and his patron might have touched the hearts
of these grim masters of irony, but for the sudden
and equal development in both of the variety of
weak natures. Mr. McCorkle basked in the popularity
of his protégé, and became alternately supercilious
or patronizing toward the dwellers of Sierra
Flat; while the poet, with hair carefully oiled and
curled, and bedecked with cheap jewelry and
flaunting neck-handkerchief, paraded himself before
the single hotel. As may be imagined, this
new disclosure of weakness afforded intense satisfaction
to Sierra Flat, gave another lease of popularity
to the poet, and suggested another idea to
the facetious “Boston.”
At that time a young lady popularly and professionally
known as the “California Pet” was performing
to enthusiastic audiences in the interior.
Her specialty lay in the personation of youthful
was irresistible, as a negro-dancer she carried the
honest miner's heart by storm. A saucy, pretty
brunette, she had preserved a wonderful moral
reputation even under the Jove-like advances of
showers of gold that greeted her appearance on
the stage at Sierra Flat. A prominent and delighted
member of that audience was Milton Chubbuck.
He attended every night. Every day he
lingered at the door of the Union Hotel for a
glimpse of the “California Pet.” It was not long
before he received a note from her, — in “Boston's”
most popular and approved female hand, —
acknowledging his admiration. It was not long
before “Boston” was called upon to indite a suitable
reply. At last, in furtherance of his facetious
design, it became necessary for “Boston” to call
upon the young actress herself and secure her personal
participation. To her he unfolded a plan,
the successful carrying out of which he felt would
secure his fame to posterity as a practical humorist.
The “California Pet's” black eyes sparkled
approvingly and mischievously. She only stipulated
that she should see the man first, — a concession
to her feminine weakness which years of
dancing Juba and wearing trousers and boots had
not wholly eradicated from her wilful breast. By
all means, it should be done. And the interview
was arranged for the next week.
It must not be supposed that during this interval
of popularity Mr. Chubbuck had been unmindful
of his poetic qualities. A certain portion of
each day he was absent from town, — “a communin'
with natur',” as Mr. McCorkle expressed
it, — and actually wandering in the mountain
trails, or lying on his back under the trees, or
gathering fragrant herbs and the bright-colored
berries of the Marzanita. These and his company
he generally brought to the editor's office, late in
the afternoon, often to that enterprising journalist's
infinite weariness. Quiet and uncommunicative,
he would sit there patiently watching him at
his work until the hour for closing the office arrived,
when he would as quietly depart. There
was something so humble and unobtrusive in these
visits, that the editor could not find it in his heart
to deny them, and accepting them, like the woodpeckers,
as a part of his sylvan surroundings, often
forgot even his presence. Once or twice, moved
by some beauty of expression in the moist, shy
eyes, he felt like seriously admonishing his visitor
of his idle folly; but his glance falling upon the
oiled hair and the gorgeous necktie, he invariably
thought better of it. The case was evidently
hopeless.
The interview between Mr. Chubbuck and the
“California Pet” took place in a private room of
the Union Hotel; propriety being respected by
this gentleman we are indebted for the only true
account of the meeting. However reticent Mr.
Chubbuck might have been in the presence of his
own sex, toward the fairer portion of humanity he
was, like most poets, exceedingly voluble. Accustomed
as the “California Pet” had been to excessive
compliment, she was fairly embarrassed by
the extravagant praises of her visitor. Her personation
of boy characters, her dancing of the
“champion jig,” were particularly dwelt upon
with fervid but unmistakable admiration. At
last, recovering her audacity and emboldened by
the presence of “Boston,” the “California Pet”
electrified her hearers by demanding, half jestingly,
half viciously, if it were as a boy or a girl that she
was the subject of his flattering admiration.
“That knocked him out o' time,” said the delighted
“Boston,” in his subsequent account of the
interview. “But do you believe the d—d fool
actually asked her to take him with her; wanted
to engage in the company.”
The plan, as briefly unfolded by “Boston,” was
to prevail upon Mr. Chubbuck to make his appearance
in costume (already designed and prepared
by the inventor) before a Sierra Flat audience, and
recite and original poem at the Hall immediately
on the conclusion of the “California Pet's” performance.
At a given signal the audience were to
provided by the originator of the scheme);
then a select few were to rush on the stage, seize
the poet, and, after marching him in triumphal
procession through town, were to deposit him beyond
its uttermost limits, with strict injunctions
never to enter it again. To the first part of the
plan the poet was committed, for the latter portion
it was easy enough to find participants.
The eventful night came, and with it an audience
that packed the long narrow room with one
dense mass of human beings. The “California
Pet” never had been so joyous, so reckless, so fascinating
and audacious before. But the applause
was tame and weak compared to the ironical outburst
that greeted the second rising of the curtain
and the entrance of the born poet of Sierra Flat.
Then there was a hush of expectancy, and the poet
stepped to the foot-lights and stood with his manuscript
in his hand.
His face was deadly pale. Either there was
some suggestion of his fate in the faces of his
audience, or some mysterious instinct told him of
his danger. He attempted to speak, but faltered,
tottered, and staggered to the wings.
Fearful of losing his prey, “Boston” gave the
signal and leaped upon the stage. But at the
same moment a light figure darted from behind
the scenes, and delivering a kick that sent the discomfited
a pigeon-wing, executed a double-shuffle, and then
advancing to the foot-lights with that inimitable
look, that audacious swagger and utter abandon
which had so thrilled and fascinated them a moment
before, uttered the characteristic speech:
“Wot are you goin' to hit a man fur, when he 's
down, s-a-a-y?”
The look, the drawl, the action, the readiness,
and above all the downright courage of the little
woman, had its effect. A roar of sympathetic applause
followed the act. “Cut and run while you
can,” she whispered hurriedly over her one shoulder,
without altering the other's attitude of pert
and saucy defiance toward the audience. But even
as she spoke the poet tottered and sank fainting
upon the stage. Then she threw a despairing
whisper behind the scenes, “Ring down the curtain.”
There was a slight movement of opposition in
the audience, but among them rose the burly shoulders
of Yuba Bill, the tall, erect figure of Henry
York of Sandy Bar, and the colorless, determined
face of John Oakhurst. The curtain came
down.
Behind it knelt the “California Pet” beside the
prostrate poet. “Bring me some water. Run for
a doctor. Stop!! Clear out, all of you!”
She had unloosed the gaudy cravat and opened
Then she burst into an hysterical laugh.
“Manuela!”
Her tiring-woman, a Mexican half-breed, came
toward her.
“Help me with him to my dressing-room, quick;
then stand outside and wait. If any one questions
you, tell them he 's gone. Do you hear?
He 's gone.”
The old woman did as she was bade. In a few
moments the audience had departed. Before morning
so also had the “California Pet,” Manuela, and
— the poet of Sierra Flat.
But, alas! with them also had departed the fair
fame of the “California Pet.” Only a few, and
these it is to be feared of not the best moral character
themselves, still had faith in the stainless
honor of their favorite actress. “It was a mighty
foolish thing to do, but it 'll all come out right
yet.” On the other hand, a majority gave her
full credit and approbation for her undoubted pluck
and gallantry, but deplored that she should have
thrown it away upon a worthless object. To elect
for a lover the despised and ridiculed vagrant of
Sierra Flat, who had not even the manliness to
stand up in his own defence, was not only evidence
of inherent moral depravity, but was an insult to
the community. Colonel Starbottle saw in it only
another instance of the extreme frailty of the sex;
sir, how a well-known Philadelphia heiress,
one of the finest women that ever rode in her kerridge,
that, gad, sir! had thrown over a Southern
member of Congress to consort with a d—d nigger.
The Colonel had also noticed a singular look in the
dog's eye which he did not entirely fancy. He
would not say anything against the lady, sir, but
he had noticed — And here haply the Colonel
became so mysterious and darkly confidential
as to be unintelligible and inaudible to the bystanders.
A few days after the disappearance of Mr. Chubbuck
a singular report reached Sierra Flat, and it
was noticed that “Boston,” who since the failure
of his elaborate joke had been even more depressed
in spirits than is habitual with great humorists,
suddenly found that his presence was required in
San Francisco. But as yet nothing but the vaguest
surmises were afloat, and nothing definite was
known.
It was a pleasant afternoon when the editor of
the “Sierra Flat Record” looked up from his case
and beheld the figure of Mr. Morgan McCorkle
standing in the doorway. There was a distressed
look on the face of that worthy gentleman that at
once enlisted the editor's sympathizing attention.
He held an open letter in his hand, as he advanced
toward the middle of the room.
“As a man as has allers borne a fair reputation,”
began Mr. McCorkle slowly, “I should like, if so
be as I could, Mister Editor, to make a correction
in the columns of your valooable paper.”
Mr. Editor begged him to proceed.
“Ye may not disremember that about a month
ago I fetched here what so be as we 'll call a young
man whose name might be as it were Milton —
Milton Chubbuck.”
Mr. Editor remembered perfectly.
“Thet same party I 'd knowed better nor fower
year, two on 'em campin' out together. Not that
I 'd known him all the time, fur he war shy and
strange at spells and had odd ways that I took
war nat'ral to a borned poet. Ye may remember
that I said he was a borned poet?”
The editor distinctly did.
“I picked this same party up in St. Jo., takin'
a fancy to his face, and kinder calklating he 'd
runn'd away from home, — for I 'm a married man,
Mr. Editor, and hev children of my own, — and
thinkin' belike he was a borned poet.”
“Well?” said the editor.
“And as I said before, I should like now to
make a correction in the columns of your valooable
paper.”
“What correction?” asked the editor.
“I said, ef you remember my words, as how he
was a borned poet.”
“Yes.”
“From statements in this yer letter it seems as
how I war wrong.”
“Well?”
“She war a woman.”
| Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches | |