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

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!