The Writings of Bret Harte :: :: University of Virginia Library

You know Bill? No! He 's engineer,
Been on the road all his life—
I'll never forget the mornin'
He married his chuck of a wife.
'T was the summer the mill hands struck—
Just off work, every one;
They kicked up a row in the village
And killed old Donovan's son.

Bill had n't been married mor'n an hour,
Up comes a message from Kress,
Orderin' Bill to go up there,
And bring down the night express.
He left his gal in a hurry,
And went up on number one,
Thinking of nothing but Mary,
And the train he had to run.

And Mary sat down by the window
To wait for the night express;
And, sir, if she had n't, 'a' done so,
She 'd been a widow, I guess.
For it must 'a' been nigh midnight
When the mill hands left the Ridge—
They come down—the drunken devils!—
Tore up a rail from the bridge.
But Mary heard 'em a-workin'
And guessed there was somethin' wrong—
And in less than fifteen minutes,
Bill's train it would be along!

385

She could n't come here to tell us:
A mile—it would n't 'a' done—
So she jest grabbed up a lantern,
And made for the bridge alone.
Then down came the night express, sir,
And Bill was makin' her climb!
But Mary held the lantern,
A-swingin' it all the time.

Well! by Jove! Bill saw the signal,
And he stopped the night express,
And he found his Mary cryin'
On the track, in her weddin' dress;
Cryin' an' laughin' for joy, sir,
An' holdin' on to the light—
Hello! here 's the train—good-bye, sir,
Bill Mason 's on time to-night.

DEACON JONES'S EXPERIENCE

(ARKANSAS CONFERENCE) 1874

Ye're right when you lays it down, Parson,
Thet the flesh is weak and a snare;
And to keep yer plow in the furrow—
When yer cattle begins to rare—
Ain't no sure thing. And, between us,
The same may be said of prayer.

Why, I stood the jokes, on the river,
Of the boys, when the critters found
Thet I 'd jined the Church, and the snicker
Thet, maybe ye mind, went round,
The day I set down with the mourners,
In the old camp-meetin' ground!

386

I stood all that, and I reckon
I might at a pinch stood more—
For the boys, they represents Bael,
And I stands as the Rock of the Law;
And it seemed like a moral scrimmage,
In holdin' agin their jaw.

But thar 's crosses a Christian suffers,
As hez n't got that pretense—
Things with no moral purpose,
Things ez hez got no sense;
Things ez, somehow, no profit
Will cover their first expense.

Ez how! I was jest last evenin'
Addressin' the Throne of Grace,
And mother knelt in the corner,
And each of the boys in his place—
When that sneakin' pup of Keziah's
To Jonathan's cat giv chase!

I never let on to mind 'em,
I never let on to hear;
But driv that prayer down the furrow
With the cat hidin' under my cheer,
And Keziah a-whisperin', “Sic her!”
And mother a-sayin', “You dare!”

I asked fer a light fer the heathen,
To guide on his narrer track,
With that dog and that cat jest walzin',
And Jonathan's face jest black,
When the pup made a rush and the kitten—
Dropped down on the small of my back.

387

Yes, I think, with the Lud's assistance,
I might have continered then,
If, gettin' her holt, that kitten
Hed n't dropped her claws in me—when
It somehow reached the “Old Adam,”
And I jumped to my feet with “Amen.”

So, ye 're right when you say it, Parson,
Thet the flesh is weak and a snare;
And to keep yer plow in the furrow—
When yer cattle begins to rare—
Ain't no sure thing. And, between us,
I say it 's jest so with prayer.

THE MAY QUEEN

(ADAPTED TO A BACKWARD SEASON)

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
And see that my room is warm, mother, and the fire is burning clear;
And tallow my nose once more, mother, once more ere you go away,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

It froze so hard last night, mother, that really I could n't break
The ice in my little pitcher, mother, till I thought the poker to take;
You'll find it there on the hearth, mother—but oh, let that hot brick stay,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

388

I shall put on my aqua scutem outside of my sealskin coat,
And two or three yards of flannel, dear, will go around my throat;
And you'll see that the boneset-tea, mother, is drawn while your child 's away,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

Little Effie shall go with me, if her nose is fit to be seen;
And you shall be there, too, dear mother, to see me made the Queen,
Provided the doctor'll let you; and, if it don't rain instead,
Little Johnny is to take me a part of the way on his sled.

So, if you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For to-morrow may be the chilliest day of all the glad New-Year;
For to-day is the thirtieth, mother, and bless'd if your child can say
If she ain't an April Fool, mother, instead of a Queen o' the May.

OF WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT

DEAD AT PITTSFIELD, MASSACHUSETTS, 1876

O Poor Romancer,—thou whose printed page,
Filled with rude speech and ruder forms of strife,
Was given to heroes in whose vulgar rage
No trace appears of gentler ways and life!—

Thou, who wast wont of commoner clay to build
Some rough Achilles or some Ajax tall;
Thou, whose free brush too oft was wont to gild
Some single virtue till it dazzled all;—

389

What right hast thou beside this laureled bier
Whereon all manhood lies—whereon the wreath
Of Harvard rests, the civic crown, and here
The starry flag, and sword and jeweled sheath?

Seest thou these hatchments? Knowest thou this blood
Nourished the heroes of Colonial days;—
Sent to the dim and savage-haunted wood
Those sad-eyed Puritans with hymns of praise?

Look round thee! Everywhere is classic ground.
There Greylock rears. Beside yon silver “Bowl”
Great Hawthorne dwelt, and in its mirror found
Those quaint, strange shapes that filled his poet's soul.

Still silent, Stranger? Thou, who now and then
Touched the too credulous ear with pathos, canst not speak?
Hast lost thy ready skill of tongue and pen?
What, Jester! Tears upon that painted cheek?

Pardon, good friends! I am not here to mar
His laureled wreaths with this poor tinseled crown,—
This man who taught me how 't was better far
To be the poem than to write it down.

I bring no lesson. Well have others preached
This sword that dealt full many a gallant blow;
I come once more to touch the hand that reached
Its knightly gauntlet to the vanquished foe.

O pale Aristocrat, that liest there,
So cold, so silent! Couldst thou not in grace
Have borne with us still longer, and so spare
The scorn we see in that proud, placid face?

390

“Hail and farewell!” So the proud Roman cried
O'er his dead hero. “Hail,” but not “farewell.”
With each high thought thou walkest side by side;
We feel thee, touch thee, know who wrought the spell!

THE WANDERINGS OF ULYSSES

AS REPORTED BY MARY JONES, MAID TO MRS. GRANT

We're here, dear, and what with our glories
And honor, you'll know by that sign
Why we have n't met Mrs. Sartoris
And I have n't written a line;
Why, what with Dukes giving receptions,
And going in state to Guildhall,
You ain't got the faintest conceptions
Of what we are doing at all!

I 've just took the card of a Countess,
I 've said “Not-at-home” to an Earl;
As for Viscounts and Lords the amount is
Too absurd. Why there is n't a girl
In Galena who would n't be hating
Your friend Mary Jones, who now writes,
While behind her this moment, in waiting,
Stands the gorgeousest critter in tights.

He 's the valet of Viscount Fitz Doosem;
He wears eppylets and all that;
Has an awful nosegay in his bosom;
His legs are uncommonly fat.
He called our Ulysses “My Master,”
Just think of it!—but I stopped that.
He tried to be halfway familiar,
But I busted the crown of his hat!

391

We're to dine out at Windsor on Friday;
We take tea with the Princess next week;
Of course I shall make myself tidy
And fix myself up, so to speak.
“I presume I'm addressing the daughter
Of America's late President?”
Said a Duke to me last night; you oughter
Have seen how he stammered and—went.

The fact is the “help” of this city
Ain't got no style, nohow; why, dear,
Though I should n't say it, I pity
These Grants, for they do act so queer.
Why, Grant smoked and drinked with a Marshal,
Like a Senator, and Missus G.,
Well!—though I'm inclined to be partial,
She yawned through a royal levee.

Why, only last night, at a supper,
He sat there so simple and still,
That, had I the pen of a—Tupper,
I could n't express my shame—till
An Earl, he rose up and says, winking,
“You 're recalling your battles, no doubt?”
Says Ulysses, “I only was thinking
Of the Stanislaus and the dug-out.

“And the scow that I ran at Knight's Ferry,
And the tolls that I once used to take.”
Imagine it, dear! Them 's the very
Expression he used. Why, I quake
As I think of it—till a great Duchess
Holds out her white hand and says “shake”;
Or words of that meaning; for such is
Them English to folks whom they take.

392

There 's dear Mr. Pierrepont; yet think, love,
In spite of his arms and his crest,
And his liveries—all he may prink, love,
Don't bring him no nearer the best;
For they 're tired of shamming and that thing
They 've had for some eight hundred year,
And really perhaps it 's a blessing
These Grants are uncommonly queer.

As for me, dear,—don't let it go further,—
But—umph!—there 's the son of a peer
Who 's waiting for me till his father
Shall give him a thousand a year;
Tha castle we'll live in, as I know,
Is the size of the White House, my dear,
And you'll just tell them folks from Ohio
That I think we will settle down here.

THAT EBREW JEW

There once was a tradesman renowned as a screw
Who sold pins and needles and calicoes too,
Till he built up a fortune—the which as it grew
Just ruined small traders the whole city through—
Yet one thing he knew,
Between me and you,
There was a distinction
'Twixt Christian and Jew.

Till he died in his mansion—a great millionaire—
The owner of thousands; but nothing to spare
For the needy and poor who from hunger might drop,
And only a pittance to clerks in his shop.

393

But left it all to
A Lawyer, who knew
A subtile distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

This man was no trader, but simply a friend
Of this Gent who kept shop and who, nearing his end,
Handed over a million—'t was only his due,
Who discovered this contrast 'twixt Ebrew and Jew.
For he said, “If you view
This case as I do,
There is a distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

“For the Jew is a man who will make money through
His skill, his finesse, and his capital too,
And an Ebrew 's a man that we Gentiles can ‘do,’
So you see there 's a contrast 'twixt Ebrew and Jew.
Ebrew and Jew,
Jew and Ebrew,
There 's a subtile distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.”

So he kept up his business of needles and pins,
But always one day he atoned for his sins,
But never the same day (for that would n't do),
That the Jew faced his God with the awful Ebrew.
For this man he knew,
Between me and you,
There was a distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

So he sold soda-water and shut up the fount
Of a druggist whose creed was the Speech on the Mount;
And he trafficked in gaiters and ruined the trade
Of a German whose creed was by great Luther made.

394

But always he knew,
Between me and you,
A subtile distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

Then he kept a hotel—here his trouble began—
In a fashion unknown to his primitive plan;
For the rule of this house to his manager ran,
“Don't give entertainment to Israelite man.”
Yet the manager knew,
Between me and you,
No other distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

“You may give to John Morissey supper and wine,
And Madame N. N. to your care I'll resign;
You'll see that those Jenkins from Missouri Flat
Are properly cared for; but recollect that
Never a Jew
Who 's not an Ebrew
Shall take up his lodgings
Here at the Grand U.

“You'll allow Miss McFlimsey her diamonds to wear;
You'll permit the Van Dams at the waiters to swear;
You'll allow Miss Décolleté to flirt on the stair;
But as to an Israelite—pray have a care;
For, between me and you,
Though the doctrine is new,
There 's a business distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.”

Now, how shall we know? Prophet, tell us, pray do,
Where the line of the Hebrew fades into the Jew?
Shall we keep out Disraeli and take Rothschild in?
Or snub Meyerbeer and think Verdi a sin?

395

What shall we do?
O, give us a few
Points to distinguish
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

There was One—Heaven help us!—who died in man's place,
With thorns on his forehead, but Love in his face:
And when “foxes had holes” and birds in the air
Had their nests in the trees, there was no spot to spare
For this “King of the Jews.”
Did the Romans refuse
This right to the Ebrews
Or only to Jews?

THE LEGEND OF GLEN HEAD

(RELATED BY A CAUTIOUS OBSERVER)

They say—though I know not what value to place
On the strength of mere local report—
That this was her home—though the tax list gives space,
I observe, to no fact of the sort.

But here she would sit; on that wheel spin her flax,—
I here may remark that her hair
Was compared to that staple,—yet as to the facts
There is no witness willing to swear.

Yet here she would sit, by that window reserved
For her vines—like a “bower of bloom,”
You'll remark I am quoting—the fact I 've observed
Is that plants attract flies to the room.

The house and the window, the wheel and the flax
Are still in their status preserved,—

396

And yet, what conclusion to draw from these facts,
I regret I have never observed.

Her parents were lowly, her lover was poor;
In brief it appears their sole plea
For turning Fitz-William away from her door
Was that he was still poorer than she.

Yet why worldly wisdom was so cruel then,
And perfectly proper to-day,
I am quite at a loss to conceive,—but my pen
Is digressing. They drove him away.

Yon bracket supported the light she would trim
Each night to attract by its gleam,
Moth-like, her Fitz-William, who fondly would swim
To her side—seven miles and upstream.

I know not how great was the length of his limb
Or how strong was her love-taper's glow;
But it seems an uncommon long distance to swim
And the light of a candle to show.

When her parents would send her quite early to bed
She would place on yon bench with great care
A sandwich, instead of the crumbs that she fed,
To her other wild pets that came there.

One night—though the date is not given, in view
Of the fact that no inquest was found—
A corpse was discovered—Fitz-William's?—a few
Have alleged—drifting out on the Sound.

At the news she fell speechless, and, day after day,
She sank without protest or moan;

397

Till at last, like a foam-flake, she melted away—
So 't is said, for her grave is unknown.

Twenty years from that day to the village again
Came a mariner portly and gray,
Who was married at Hempstead—the record is plain
Of the justice—on that fatal day.

He hired the house, and regretted the fate
Of the parties whose legend I 've told.
He made some repairs,—for 't is proper to state
That the house was exceedingly old.

His name was McCorkle—now, while there is naught
To suggest of Fitz-William in that,
You'll remember, if living, our Fitz-William ought
To have grown somewhat grayer and fat.

But this is conjecture. The fact still remains
Of the vines and the flax as before.
And knowing your weakness I 've taken some pains
To present them, my love, nothing more.

“KITTY HAWK”

A MARINE DIALOGUE

[_]

[Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, a small settlement and signal station, was, in November, 1877, the scene of the wreck of the United States man-of-war Huron, and the loss of almost all the crew. The fact that apparently no effort was made at rescue, and the finding for many miles along the shore of the bodies stripped of all valuables, led to considerable comment.]

Poet
Kitty

POET

Where the seas worn out with chasing, at thy white feet sink embracing, thou still sittest, coldly facing,
Kitty Hawk!

398

Facing, gazing seaward ever, on each weak or strong endeavor, but in grief, or pity, never,
Kitty Hawk!

Eagles, sea-gulls round thee flying, land birds spent with speed and dying, even Man to thee outcrying,
Kitty Hawk!

All thou seest, all thou hearest, yet thou carest naught nor fearest, flesh nor fowl to thee is dearest,
Kitty Hawk!

Art thou human? art thou woman? art thou dead to love and to man more than all relentless, ever?
Kitty Hawk!

Hast thou wrongs to right, O Kitty? wrongs that move the soul to pity? tell to me thy mournful ditty,
Kitty Hawk!

Tell me all! how some false lover, vagrant ship-boy, sailor rover, left, bereft thee, threw thee over,
Kitty Hawk!

For some Antipodean savage, left thy rage the shore to ravage (with a faint idea of salvage),
Kitty Hawk!

How thy vague but tragic story clothes the sandy promontory, calls in accents monitory,
Kitty Hawk!

How thy feline appellation, in accipitrine combination, most befits a rhymed narration,
Kitty Hawk!

399

KITTY

Festive tramp! around me prying—man with hair unkempt and flying—youth with neck and head retractile,
Like a clam.

Draw within thy soft inclosure, stop this cerebral exposure, for that 's not the kind of hairpin
That I am.

If you're me apostrophizing, with this attitudinizing, prithee, hasten your uprising,
And in time,

On this beach, which is the Station's, leave some certain indentations—“footprints” for some sailing brother,
Who might rhyme!

For my name is Jane Maria, and my father, Kezuriah, though he greatly might admire,
All your talk,

As one of the town officials, might prefer that his initials should appear, just as he writes them—
K. T. Hawk.

MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG

“My sister'll be down in a minute, and says you're to wait, if you please,
And says I might stay till she came, if I 'd promise her never to tease.
Nor speak till you spoke to me first. But that 's nonsense, for how would you know
What she told me to say, if I did n't? Don't you really and truly think so?

400

“And then you 'd feel strange here alone! And you would n't know just where to sit;
For that chair is n't strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit.
We keep it to match with the sofa. But Jack says it would be like you
To flop yourself right down upon it and knock out the very last screw.

“S'pose you try? I won't tell. You're afraid to! Oh! you 're afraid they would think it was mean!
Well, then, there 's the album—that 's pretty, if you 're sure that your fingers are clean.
For sister says sometimes I daub it; but she only says that when she 's cross.
There 's her picture. You know it? It 's like her; but she ain't as good-looking, of course!

“This is me. It 's the best of 'em all. Now, tell me, you'd never have thought
That once I was little as that? It 's the only one that could be bought—
For that was the message to Pa from the photograph man where I sat—
That he would n't print off any more till he first got his money for that.

“What? Maybe you 're tired of waiting. Why, often she 's longer than this.
There 's all her back hair to do up and all of her front curls to friz.
But it 's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me.
Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don't come like Tom Lee.

401

“Tom Lee. Her last beau. Why, my goodness! He used to be here day and night,
Till the folks thought that he 'd be her husband; and Jack says that gave him a fright.
You won't run away, then, as he did? for you 're not a rich man, they say.
Pa says you are as poor as a church mouse. Now, are you? And how poor are they?

“Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know now your hair is n't red.
But what there is left of it 's mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said.
But there! I must go. Sister 's coming. But I wish I could wait, just to see
If she ran up to you and she kissed you in the way that she used to kiss Lee.”

THE DEAD POLITICIAN

FIFTH WARD

“‘Who's dead?’ Ye want to know
Whose is this funeral show—
This A 1 corteg'?
Well, it was Jim Adair,
And the remains's hair
Sported a short edge!

“When a man dies like Jim,
There 's no expense of him
We boys are sparing.
In life he hated fuss,
But—as he 's left to us—
Them plumes he 's wearing!

402

“All the boys here, you see,
Chock full each carriage!
Only one woman. She—
Cousin by marriage.

“Who was this Jim Adair?
Who? Well, you 've got me there!
Reckon one of them 'air
Fogy ‘old res'dents!’
Who? Why, that corpse you see
Ridin' so peacefully,
Head o' this jamboree—
'Lected three Pres'dents!

“Who was he? Ask the boys
Who made the biggest noise,
Rynders or Jimmy?
Who, when his hat he 'd fling,
Knew how the ‘Ayes’ would ring,
Oh, no! not Jimmy!

“Who was he? Ask the Ward
Who hed the rules aboard,
All parliament'ry?
Who ran the delegate,
That ran the Empire State,
And—just as sure as fate—
Ran the whole 'kentry?

“Who was he? S'pose you try
That chap as wipes his eye
In that hack's corner.
Ask him—the only man
That agin Jimmy ran—
Now his chief mourner!

403

“Well—that 's the last o' Jim.
Yes, we was proud o' him.”

OLD TIME AND NEW

(Contributed to the first number of the Time Magazine, April, 1879)

How well we know that figure limned
On every almanac's first page,
The beard unshorn, the hair untrimmed,
The gaunt limbs bowed and bent with age;
That well-known glass with sands run out,
That scythe that he was wont to wield
With shriveled arm, which made us doubt
His power in Life's harvest field!

Ah, him we know! But who comes here
Pranked with the fashion of the town?
This springald, who in jest or jeer,
Tries on old Time's well-frosted crown!
Vain is his paint! Youth's freshest down
Through penciled wrinkles shows too soon
The bright mischievous face of Clown,
Beneath the mask of Pantaloon!

A doubtful jest, howe'er well played,
To mock the show of fleeting breath
With youth's light laugh, and masquerade
This gaunt stepbrother of grim Death!
Is this a moralist to teach
The equal fate of small and large?
Peace! Yet—one moment—yield him speech
Before we give the scamp in charge!

“I crave no grace from those who dream
Time only was, and from the past

404

Still draw the wisdom that they deem
Will only live and only last.
Time is not old, as all who 've tried
To kill or cheat him must attest;
And outward symbols cannot hide
The same firm pulse that stirs your breast.

“The old stock properties you preach
To truer symbols must pay tithe;
M'Cormick's reapers better teach
My truths than your old-fashioned scythe.
The racing ‘Timer's’ slender vane
That marks the quarter seconds pass,
Marks, too, its moral quite as plain
As e'er was drawn in sand through glass.

“So if I bring in comelier dress
And newer methods, things less new,
I claim that honored name still less
To be consistent than be true.
If mine be not the face that 's cast
In every almanac and rhyme,
Look through them—all that there will last
You 'll find within these leaves of ‘Time!’”

UNDER THE GUNS

Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill
Daisies are blossoming, buttercups fill;
Up the gray ramparts the scaling vine flings
High its green ladders, and falters and clings
Under the guns,
Under the guns,
Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill.

405

Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill
Once shook the earth with the cannonade's thrill,
Once trod these buttercups feet that, now still,
Lie all at rest in their trench by the mill.
Under the guns,
Under the guns,
Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill.

Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill
Equal the rain falls on good and on ill.
Soft lies the sunshine, still the brook runs,
Still toils the Husbandman—under the guns,
Under the guns,
Under the guns,
Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill.

Under the guns of Thy Fort on the Hill
Lord! in Thy mercy we wait on Thy will;
Lord! is it War that Thy wisdom best knows,
Lord! is it Peace, that Thy goodness still shows,
Under the guns,
Under the guns,
Under the guns of Thy Fort on the Hill?

COMPENSATION

The Poet sings on the plain,
The Trader toils in the mart,
One envies the other's gain,
One stares at the other's art.

Yet each one reaches his goal,
And the Critic sneers as they pass,
And each of the three in his soul
Believes the other an ass.

406

OUR LAUREATE

[_]

(Contributed to the Holmes number of the Critic, issued on the twenty-ninth of August, 1884—the seventy-fifth anniversary of the birth of Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes.)

One day from groves of pine and palm,
The poets of the sky and cover
Had come to greet with song and psalm
The whip-poor-will—their woodland lover.
All sang their best, but one clear note
That fairly voiced their admiration
Was his—who only sang by rote—
The mock-bird's modest imitation.

So we, who 'd praise the bard who most
Is poet of each high occasion,
Who 'd laud our laureate, and toast
The blithe Toast-Master of the Nation,—
To celebrate his fête to-day,
In vain each bard his praise rehearses:
The best that we can sing or say
Is but an echo of his verses.

SCOTCH LINES TO A. S. B.

(FROM AN UNINTELLIGENT FOREIGNER)

We twa hae heard the gowans sing,
Sae saft and dour, sae fresh and gey;
And paidlet in the brae, in Spring,
To scent the new-mown “Scots wha hae.”

407

But maist we loo'ed at e'en to chase
The pibroch through each wynd and close,
Or climb the burn to greet an' face
The skeendhus gangin' wi' their Joes.

How aft we said“Eh, Sirs!” and “Mon!”
Likewise “Whateffer”—apropos
Of nothing. And pinned faith upon
“Aiblins”—though why we didna know.

We 've heard nae mon say “gowd” for “gold,”
And yet wi' all our tongues up-curled,
We—like the British drum-beat—rolled
Our “R's” round all the speaking worruld.

How like true Scots we didna care
A bawbee for the present tense,
But said “we will be” when we were,
'T was bonny—but it wasna sense.

And yet, “ma frien” and “trusty frere,”
We'll take a right gude “Willie Waught”
(Tho' what that may be is not clear,
Nor where it can be made or bought).

THE ENOCH OF CALAVERAS

Well, dog my cats! Say, stranger,
You must have traveled far!
Just flood your lower level
And light a fresh cigar.
Don't tell me in this weather,
You hoofed it all the way?
Well, slice my liver lengthways!
Why, stranger, what 's to pay?

408

Huntin' yer wife, you tell me;
Well, now, dog-gone my skin!
She thought you dead and buried,
And then bestowed her fin
Upon another fellow!
Just put it there, old pard!
Some fellows strike the soft things,
But you have hit it hard.

I'm right onto your feelin's,
I know how it would be,
If my own shrub slopped over
And got away from me.
Say, stranger, that old sage hen,
That 's cookin' thar inside,
Is warranted the finest wool,
And just a square yard wide.

I would n't hurt yer, pardner,
But I tell you, no man
Was ever blessed as I am
With that old pelican.
It 's goin' on some two year
Since she was j'ined to me,
She was a widder prior,
Her name was Sophy Lee—

Good God! old man, what's happened?
Her? She? Is that the one?
That 's her? Your wife, you tell me?
Now reach down for yer gun.
I never injured no man,
And no man me, but squealed,
And any one who takes her
Must do it d---d well heeled!

409

Listen? Surely. Certainly
I'll let you look at her.
Peek through the door, she 's in thar,
Is that your furnitur'?
Speak, man, quick! You 're mistaken!
No! Yours! You recognize
My wife, your wife, the same one?
The man who says so, lies!

Don't mind what I say, pardner,
I'm not much on the gush,
But the thing comes down on me
Like fours upon a flush.
If that 's your wife—hold—steady!
That bottle, now my coat,
She'll think me dead as you were.
My pipe. Thar. I'm afloat.

But let me leave a message.
No; tell her that I died:
No, no; not that way, either,
Just tell her that I cried.
It don't rain much. Now, pardner,
Be to her what I 've been,
Or, by the God that hates you,
You'll see me back again!

“FREE SILVER AT ANGEL'S”

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James,
I have told the tale of “William” and of “Ah Sin's” sinful games;

410

I have yarned of “Our Society,” and certain gents I know,
Yet my words were plain and simple, and I never yet was low.

Thar is high-toned gents, ink-slingers; thar is folks as will allow
Ye can't reel off a story onless they 've taught ye how;
Till they get the word they're wantin', they're allus cryin' “Whoa!”
All the while their mule is pullin' (that 's their “Pegasus,” you know).

We ain't built that way at Angel's—but why pursue this theme?
When things is whirling round us in a wild delusive dream;
When “fads” on “bikes” go scorchin' down—to t'other place you know
(For I speak in simple language—and I never yet was low).

It was rainin' up at Angel's—we war sittin' round the bar,
Discussin' of “Free Silver” that was “going soon to par,”
And Ah Sin stood thar a-listenin' like a simple guileless child,
That hears the Angels singin'—so dreamy like he smiled.

But we knew while he was standin' thar—of all that heathen heard
And saw—he never understood a single blessed word;
Till Brown of Calaveras, who had waltzed up on his bike,
Sez: “What is your opinion, John, that this Free Silver 's like?”

But Ah Sin said, “No shabbee,” in his childish, simple way,
And Brown he tipped a wink at us and then he had his say:

411

He demonstrated then and thar how silver was as good
As gold—if folks war n't blasted fools, and only understood!

He showed how we “were crucified upon a cross of gold”
By millionaires, and banged his fist, until our blood ran cold.
He was a most convincin' man—was Brown in all his ways,
And his skill with a revolver, folks had oft remarked with praise.

He showed us how the ratio should be as “sixteen to one,”
And he sorted out some dollars—while the boys enjoyed the fun—
And laid them on the counter—and heaped 'em in a pile,
While Ah Sin, he drew nearer with his happy, pensive smile.

“The heathen in his blindness bows down to wood and stone,”
Said Brown, “but this poor heathen won't bow to gold alone;
So speak, my poor Mongolian, and show us your idee
Of what we call ‘Free Silver’ and what is meant by ‘Free.’”

Swift was the smile that stole across that heathen's face! I grieve
That swifter was the hand that swept those dollars up his sleeve.
“Me shabbee ‘Silvel’ allee same as Mellican man,” says he;
“Me shabbee ‘Flee’ means ‘B'longs to none,’ so Chinaman catch he!”

412

Now, childlike as his logic was, it did n't justify
The way the whole crowd went for him without a reason why;
And the language Brown made use of I shall not attempt to show,
For my words are plain and simple—and I never yet was low.

Then Abner Dean called “Order!” and he said “that it would seem
The gentleman from China's deductions were extreme;
I move that we should teach him, in a manner that shall strike,
The ‘bi-metallic balance’ on Mr. Brown's new bike!”

Now Dean was scientific,—but was sinful, too, and gay,—
And I hold it most improper for a gent to act that way,
And having muddled Ah Sin's brains with that same silver craze,
To set him on a bicycle—and he not know its ways

They set him on and set him off; it surely seemed a sin
To see him waltz from left to right, and wobble out an in,
Till his pigtail caught within the wheel and wound up round its rim,
And that bicycle got up and reared—and then crawled over him.

“My poor Mongolian friend,” said Dean, “it 's plain that in your case
Your centre point of gravity don't fall within your base.
We'll tie the silver in a bag and hang it from your queue,
And then—by scientific law—you'll keep your balance true!”

413

They tied that silver to his queue, and it hung down behind,
But always straight, no matter which the side Ah Sin inclined—
For though a sinful sort of man—and lightsome, too, I ween—
He was no slouch in Science—was Mister Abner Dean!

And here I would remark how vain are all deceitful tricks,—
The boomerang we throw comes back to give us its last licks,—
And that same weight on Ah Sin's queue set him up straight and plumb,
And he scooted past us down the grade and left us cold and dumb!

“Come back! Come back!” we called at last. We heard a shriek of glee,
And something sounding strangely like “All litee! Silvel 's flee!”
And saw his feet tucked on the wheel—the bike go all alone!
And break the biggest record Angel's Camp had ever known!

He raised the hill without a spill, and still his speed maintained,
For why?—he traveled on the sheer momentum he had gained,
And vanished like a meteor—with his queue stretched in the gale,
Or I might say a Comet—takin' in that silver tail!

But not again we saw his face—nor Brown his “Silver Free”!
And I marvel in my simple mind howe'er these things can be!

414

But I do not reproduce the speech of Brown who saw him go,
For my words are pure and simple—and I never yet was low!

“HASTA MAÑANA”

When all's in bud, and the leaf still unfolding,
When there are ruby points still on the spray,
When that prim school gown your charms are withholding,
Then, Manuela, child, well may you say:
“Hasta Mañana! Hasta Mañana!
Until to-morrow—amigo, alway.”

When, Manuela, white, crimson, and yellow,
Peep through green sepals the roses of May,
And through black laces the bloom of your face is
Fresh as those roses, child, still you may say:
Through your mantilla—coy Manuela!
“Hasta Mañana, amigo, alway.”

When all 's in bloom, and the rose in its passion
Warmed on your bosom would never say nay,
Still it is wise—in your own country fashion—
Under your opening fan, only to say:
“Hasta Mañana! Hasta Mañana!
Until to-morrow, amigo, alway.”

When all is gray and the roses are scattered,
Hearts may have broken that brook no delay,
Yet will to-morrow, surcease of sorrow
Bring unto eyes and lips that still can say:
“Hasta Mañana! Hasta Mañana!
Until to-morrow is best for to-day!”

415

Phrase of Castilian lands! Speech, that in languor
Softly procrastinates, for “aye” or “nay,”
From Seville's orange groves to remote Yanguea,
Best heard on rosy lips—let thy words say:
“Hasta Mañana! Hasta Mañana!
Until to-morrow, amigo, alway!”

LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON

When I bought you for a song,
Years ago—Lord knows how long!—
I was struck—I may be wrong—
By your features,
And—a something in your air
That I could n't quite compare
To my other plain or fair
Fellow-creatures.

In your simple, oval frame
You were not well known to fame,
But to me—'t was all the same—
Whoe'er drew you;
For your face I can't forget,
Though I oftentimes regret
That, somehow, I never yet
Saw quite through you.

Yet each morning, when I rise,
I go first to greet your eyes;
And, in turn, you scrutinize
My presentment.
And when shades of evening fall,
As you hang upon my wall,
You 're the last thing I recall
With contentment.

416

It is weakness, yet I know
That I never turned to go
Anywhere, for weal or woe,
But I lingered
For one parting, thrilling flash
From your eyes, to give that dash
To the curl of my mustache,
That I fingered.

If to some you may seem plain,
And when people glance again
Where you hang, their lips refrain
From confession;
Yet they turn in stealth aside,
And I note, they try to hide
How much they are satisfied
In expression.

Other faces I have seen;
Other forms have come between;
Other things I have, I ween,
Done and dared for!
But our ties they cannot sever,
And, though I should say it never,
You 're the only one I ever
Really cared for!

And you'll still be hanging there
When we 're both the worse for wear,
And the silver 's on my hair
And off your backing;
Yet my faith shall never pass
In my dear old shaving-glass,
Till my face and yours, alas!
Both are lacking!

417

THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER

Did I ever tell you, my dears, the way
That the birds of Cisseter—“Cisseter!” eh?
Well “Ciren-cester”—one ought to say,
From “Castra,” or “Caster,”
As your Latin master.
Will further explain to you some day;
Though even the wisest err,
And Shakespeare writes “Ci-cester,”
While every visitor
Who does n't say “Cisseter”
Is in “Ciren-cester” considered astray.

A hundred miles from London town—
Where the river goes curving and broadening down
From tree-top to spire, and spire to mast,
Till it tumbles outright in the Channel at last—
A hundred miles from that flat foreshore
That the Danes and the Northmen haunt no more—
There 's a little cup in the Cotswold Hills
Which a spring in a meadow bubbles and fills,
Spanned by a heron's wing—crossed by a stride—
Calm and untroubled by dreams of pride,
Guiltless of fame or ambition's aims,
That is the source of the lordly Thames!
Remark here again that custom condemns
Both “Thames” and Thamis—you must say “Tems”!
But why? no matter!—from them you can see
Cirencester's tall spires loom up o'er the lea.

A. D. Five Hundred and Fifty-two,
The Saxon invaders—a terrible crew—
Had forced the lines of the Britons through;

418

And Cirencester—half mud and thatch,
Dry and crisp as a tinder match,
Was fiercely beleaguered by foes, who 'd catch
At any device that could harry and rout
The folk that so boldly were holding out.

For the streets of the town—as you'll see to-day—
Were twisted and curved in a curious way
That kept the invaders still at bay;
And the longest bolt that a Saxon drew
Was stopped, ere a dozen of yards it flew,
By a turn in the street, and a law so true
That even these robbers—of all laws scorners!—
Knew you could n't shoot arrows around street corners.

So they sat them down on a little knoll,
And each man scratched his Saxon poll,
And stared at the sky, where, clear and high,
The birds of that summer went singing by,
As if, in his glee, each motley jester
Were mocking the foes of Cirencester,
Till the jeering crow and the saucy linnet
Seemed all to be saying: “Ah! you 're not in it!”

High o'er their heads the mavis flew,
And the “ouzel-cock so black of hue”;
And the “throstle,” with his “note so true”
(You remember what Shakespeare says—he knew);
And the soaring lark, that kept dropping through
Like a bucket spilling in wells of blue;
And the merlin—seen on heraldic panes—
With legs as vague as the Queen of Spain's;
And the dashing swift that would ricochet
From the tufts of grasses before them, yet—

419

Like bold Antæus—would each time bring
New life from the earth, barely touched by his wing;
And the swallow and martlet that always knew
The straightest way home. Here a Saxon churl drew
His breath—tapped his forehead—an idea had got through!

So they brought them some nets, which straightway they filled
With the swallows and martlets—the sweet birds who build
In the houses of man—all that innocent guild
Who sing at their labor on eaves and in thatch—
And they stuck on their feathers a rude lighted match
Made of resin and tow. Then they let them all go
To be free! As a childlike diversion? Ah, no!
To work Cirencester's red ruin and woe.

For straight to each nest they flew, in wild quest
Of their homes and their fledglings—that they loved the best;
And straighter than arrow of Saxon e'er sped
They shot o'er the curving streets, high overhead,
Bringing fire and terror to roof-tree and bed,
Till the town broke in flame, wherever they came,
To the Briton's red ruin—the Saxon's red shame!

Yet they 're all gone together! To-day you'll dig up
From “mound” or from “barrow” some arrow or cup.
Their fame is forgotten—their story is ended—
'Neath the feet of the race they have mixed with and blended.
But the birds are unchanged—the ouzel-cock sings,
Still gold on his crest and still black on his wings;
And the lark chants on high, as he mounts to the sky,
Still brown in his coat and still dim in his eye;
While the swallow or martlet is still a free nester
In the eaves and the roofs of thrice-built Cirencester.

420

TRUTHFUL JAMES AND THE KLONDIKER

We woz sittin' free—like ez you and me—in our camp on the Stanislow,
Round a roarin' fire of bresh and brier, stirred up by a pitch-pine bough,
And Jones of Yolo had finished his solo on Bilson's prospectin' pan,
And we all woz gay until Jefferson Clay kem in with a Klondike man.

Now I most despise low language and lies, as I used to remark to Nye,
But the soul of Truth—though he was but a youth—looked out of that stranger's eye,
And the things he said I had frequent read in the papers down on “the Bay,”
And the words he choosed woz the kind wot 's used in the best theayter play.

He talked of snows, and of whiskey wot froze in the solidest kind of chunk,
Which it took just a pound to go fairly around when the boys had a first-class drunk,
And of pork that was drilled and with dynamite filled before it would yield to a blow,
For things will be strange when thermometers range to sixty degrees below.

How they made soup of boots—which the oldest best suits—and a “fry” from a dancin' shoe,
How in Yukon Valley a corpse de bally might get up a fine “menoo.”

421

But their regular fare when they'd nothin' to spare and had finished their final mule
Was the harness leather which with hides went together, though the last did n't count ez a rule.

Now all this seemed true, and quite nateral, too, and then he spoke of the gold,
And we all sot up, and refilled his cup, and this is the yarn he told:
There was gold in heaps—but it 's there it keeps, and will keep till the Judgment Day,
For it's very rare that a man gets there—and the man that is there must stay!

It's a thousand miles by them Russian isles till you come onto “Fort Get There”
(Which the same you are not if you'll look at the spot on the map—that of gold is bare);
Then a river begins that the Amazon skins and the big Mississippi knocks out,
For it's seventy miles 'cross its mouth when it smiles, and—you 've only begun your route.

Here Bilson arose with a keerless-like pose and he gazed on that Klondike youth,
And he says: “Fair sir, do not think I infer that your words are not words of truth,
But I 'd simply ask why—since that all men must die—your sperrit is wanderin' here
When at Dawson City—the more's the pity—you 've been frozen up nigh a year.”

“You need not care, for I never was there,” said that simple Klondike man.

422

“I'm a company floater and business promoter, and this is my little plan:
I show you the dangers to which you are strangers, and now for a sum you'll learn
What price you expect us—as per this Prospectus—to insure your safe return.”

Then Bilson stared, and he almost r'ared, but he spoke in a calm-like tone:
“You'll excuse me for sayin' you 're rather delayin' your chance to insure your own!
For we're way worn and weary, your style isn't cheery, we 've had quite enough of your game.”
But—what did affect us—he took that Prospectus and chucked it right into the flame!

Then our roarin' fire of bresh and brier flashed up on the Stanislow,
And Jefferson Clay went softly away with that youth with a downcast brow,
And Jones of Yolo repeated his solo on that still, calm evening air,
And we thought with a shiver of Yukon River and the fort that was called “Get There!”

UNCLE JUBA

“Dar was a man in Florida, dey called him ‘Uncle Ju,’
De doctor found him proof agin all fevers dat dey knew;
De cholera bacillus he would brush away like flies,
And yaller fever microbes he would simply jess despise.
For he was such a bery seasoned nigger
Froo and froo—all froo,
Jess de acclimated, vaccinated figger
To do—to do.

423

When de sojer boys came marching, dey would shout,
‘Lordy! Here 's de man for Cuba—trot him out.
For even if he cannot pull a trigger
Just like you—like you,
He 's a seasoned and an acclimated figure,
Dat will do—will do.’

“De proudest man in Florida dat day was ‘Uncle Ju,’
When dey marched him off to Cuba wid de odder boys in blue;
He had a brand-new uniform, a red cross on his arm,
He said, ‘Don't mind me, darkies, I can't come to any harm,
For de surgeon dat inspected of my figger
When on view—on view,
Sez I'm just de kind of acclimated nigger
Dat 'ud do—would do.
I can tackle yaller fever all de day,
I'm de only man for Cuba what can stay,
For agin de bery worst kind of malaria
Dat dey knew—dey knew,
I'm an iron-plated, sheathed and belted area
Froo and froo—all froo.’

“Alas! for Ju, poor Uncle Ju, aldo' dar was no doubt
Dey passed him froo as fever proof, one ting dey had left out;
For while he took his rations straight, and odders died like flies,
Along o' dat 'er Yaller Jack and deadly Cuban skies,
And though such a bery highly seasoned nigger
Froo and froo—all froo,
And an acclimated, vaccinated figure
Just like new—like new,

424

One day a Spanish gunner sent a shell
Which skooted dat poor darkie off to dwell
Where de fever would send any odder nigger
Like you—like you,
For it flattened out dat acclimated figger
Ob old Ju—poor Ju.”

THE QUEEN'S DEATH

(ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN VICTORIA)

When your men bowed heads together
With hushed lips,
And the globe swung out from gladness
To eclipse;

When your drums from the equator
To the pole
Carried round it an unending
Funeral roll;

When your capitals from Norway
To the Cape
Through their streets and from their houses
Trailed their crape;

Still the sun awoke to gladness
As of old,
And the stars their midnight beauty
Still unrolled;

For the glory born of Goodness
Never dies,
And its flag is not half-masted
In the skies.

425

THE SWORD OF DON JOSÉ

(TOLD AT THE MISSION OF SAN LUIS REY, 1860)

Aye, look, there it hangs! You would think 'twas a cross
Fairly wrought of old iron. Yet, barring the loss
Of some twisted work here that once guarded the hand,
You might say 't was the hilt of some cavalier's brand;
As it is, of a truth! You are staring, Señor!
At this shrine, at this altar, where never before
Hung ex voto so strange; at these walls in decay,
All that stands of the Mission of San Luis Rey;
At these leagues of wild llano beyond, which still hoard
In their heart this poor shrine, and a cavalier's sword!

Yes! It hangs there to praise Holy Church and the spell
She once broke in her power and glory; as well
As that tough blade she snapped in its vengeance, just when—
But here is—Don Pancho!—a tale for your pen!

You accept. Then observe on the blade near its haft
The world-renowned stamp of that chief of his craft
In Toledo, Sebastian Hernandez. The date
You will note: sixteen hundred and seventy-eight!
That 's the year, so 't is said, when this story begins
And he fashioned that blade for our sorrows and sins.

From a baldric of Cordovan leather and steel
It trailed in its prime, at the insolent heel
Of Don José Ramirez, a Toledan knight,
Poor in all, so 't was said, but a stomach for fight.
And that blade, like himself, was so eager and keen
It would glide through a corselet and all else between;

426

And so supple 't would double from point to the hilt,
Yet pierce a cuirass like a lance in full tilt;
Till 'twixt Master and Sword, there was scarcely a day
That both were not drawn in some quarrel or fray.

Then Ruy Mendoza, a grandee of Spain,
Castellan of Toledo, was called to maintain
That such blades should be parted, but José replied,
“Come and try it!”—while Ruy let fall, on his side
Certain sneers which too free a translation might mar,
Such as “Ho! Espadachin!” and “Fanfarronear!”
Till Don José burst out that “the whole race abhorred,”
The line of Mendoza's should “fall by his sword.”

The oath of a braggart, you 'd say? Well, in truth,
So it seemed, for that oath wrought Ramirez but ruth;
And spite of the lightnings that leaped from his blade,
Here and there, everywhere, never point yet he made;
While the sword of Mendoza, pressing closely but true,
At the third and fourth pass ran the challenger through,
And he fell. But they say as the proud victor grasped
The sword of Ramirez, the dying man gasped,
And his white lips repeated the words of his boast:
“Ye—shall—fall—by—my—sword,” as he gave up the ghost.

“Retribution?” Quien sabe? The tale 's not yet done.
For a twelvemonth scarce passed since that victory won
And the sword of Don José hung up in the hall
Of Mendoza's own castle, a lesson for all
Who love brawls to consider, when one summer noon
Don Ruy came home just an hour too soon,
As some husbands will do when their wives prove untrue,
And discovered his own with a lover, who flew

427

From her bower through passage and hall in dismay,
With the Don in pursuit, but at last stood at bay
In the hall, where they closed in a deadly affray.

But here, runs the tale, when the lover's bright blade,
Engaging Don Ruy's, showed out “in parade,”
The latter drew back with a cry and a start
Which threw up his guard, and straightway through his heart
Passed the sword of his rival. He fell, but they say
He pointed one hand, as his soul was set free,
To the blade, and gasped out: “'T is his sword! Ay de mi!”
And 't was true! For the lover, unarmed in his flight,
Caught up the first weapon that chanced to his sight—
The sword on the wall, José's own fateful brand,
Not knowing the curse to be wrought by his hand.

So the first victim fell! When Don Luis, the heir
Of the luckless Don Ruy, in haste summoned there,
Heard the tale, he commanded the sword which had wrought
Such mischance to his race to be instantly brought,
And in presence of all smote the blade such a blow
'Cross the mail of his knee as should snap it; but, no;
For that well-tempered steel, from its point to its heel,
Was so supple, it bent in an arc like a wheel,
And recoiling, glanced up, to the horror of all,
Through the throat of the heir, in his dead father's hall!

Next of kin was a soldier, Ramon, who maintained
That by boldness alone was security gained,
And the curse would be naught to the man who dared trip
Through the rest of his life with that sword on his hip,
As he should. But, what would you? when he took the field,
His troop was surrounded; himself made to yield

428

And deliver his sword! You can fancy the rest
When you think of the curse. By the foe sorely pressed
In a fight, when released, he fell by that brand
Of the Spanish José, in some strange Flemish hand!

Then the sword disappeared, and with it, it seemed,
The race of Mendoza. No man ever dreamed
Of a curse lying perdu for centuries; when,
Some time in the year eighteen hundred and ten,
There died at the Pueblo of San Luis Rey
Comandante Mendoza, descended, they say,
From those proud hidalgos who brought in their hands
No sword, but the cross, to these far heathen lands,
And he left but one son, Agustin, to alone
Bear the curse of his race (though to him all unknown);
A studious youth, quite devout from a child,
With no trace of that sin his ancestors defiled.

You know the Pueblo? On its outskirts there stood
The casa new-built of El Capitan Wood
An American trader, who brought from the seas
Much wealth and the power to live at his ease.
And his casa was filled with the spoils of all climes
He had known; silks and china, rare goods of all times.
But notably first, 'midst queer idols and charms,
Was a rare and historical trophy of arms;
And supreme over all, hung the prize of that hoard,
An antique and genuine Toledan sword.

He had, too, a son, who was playmate and friend
To Agustin. Together, their joy was to spend
In this house of rare treasures their hours of play;
And here it so chanced that an unlucky day
The son of the host in adventurous zeal
Climbed the wall to examine that queer-looking steel

429

While Agustin looked on. A misstep! A wild cry!
And a clutch that tore loose that queer weapon on high,
And they both hurtled down on Agustin beneath
With his uplifted arms, and his breast a mere sheath
For the blade! When, thank God! (and all glory and praise
To our blessed San Luis, whose shrine here we raise!)
Its point struck the cross ever hung at his neck
And shivered like glass! a miraculous wreck!
Without splinter or fragment save this near the hilt,
And of innocent blood not a drop ever spilt!

There 's the tale! Yet not all! though that cross broke the spell
It ended the race of Mendoza as well,
For that youth was the last of his name! You ask, “How?
Died he too?” Nay, Don Pancho,—he speaks with you now,—
Spared that curse as “Agustin,” his young life he laid,
With his vows, on this altar, as “Brother Merced.”
And this cross on my breast with this dent, as you see,
Hangs but where it hung when that spell was set free!

THE END