The Writings of Bret Harte standard library edition |
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THE ENOCH OF CALAVERAS |
 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
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?
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.
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 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—
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!
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!
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.
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!
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!
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |