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diff --git a/2507.txt b/2507.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a38096d --- /dev/null +++ b/2507.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10413 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Complete Poetical Works of Bret Harte, by Bret Harte + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Complete Poetical Works of Bret Harte + +Author: Bret Harte + +Posting Date: December 11, 2008 [EBook #2507] +Release Date: February, 2000 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS *** + + + + +Produced by Donald Lainson + + + + + +COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS + +By Bret Harte + + +"Argonaut Edition" Of The Works Of Bret Harte, Vol. 8 + +P. F. Collier & Son + +New York + +Copyright 1882, 1896, And 1902 + +By Houghton, Mifflin & Company + + + + +BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH + +Although Bret Harte's name is identified with Californian life, it was +not till he was fifteen that the author of "Plain Language from Truthful +James" saw the country of his adoption. Francis Bret Harte, to give the +full name which he carried till he became famous, was born at Albany, +New York, August 25, 1839. He went with his widowed mother to +California in 1854, and was thrown as a young man into the hurly-burly +which he more than any other writer has made real to distant and later +people. He was by turns a miner, school-teacher, express messenger, +printer, and journalist. The types which live again in his pages are +thus not only what he observed, but what he himself impersonated in his +own experience. + +He began trying his pen in The Golden Era of San Francisco, where he was +working as a compositor; and when The Californian, edited by Charles +Henry Webb, was started in 1864 as a literary newspaper, he was one of a +group of brilliant young fellows--Mark Twain, Charles Warren Stoddard, +Webb himself, and Prentice Mulford--who gave at once a new interest in +California beside what mining and agriculture caused. Here in an early +number appeared "The Ballad of the Emeu," and he contributed many poems, +grave and gay, as well as prose in a great variety of form. At the same +time he was appointed Secretary of the United States Branch Mint at San +Francisco, holding the office till 1870. + +But Bret Harte's great opportunity came when The Overland Monthly was +established in 1868 by Anton Roman. This magazine was the outgrowth of +the racy, exuberant literary spirit which had already found free +expression in the journals named. An eager ambition to lift all the new +life of the Pacific into a recognized place in the world of letters made +the young men we have named put their wits together in a monthly +magazine which should rival the Atlantic in Boston and Blackwood in +Edinburgh. The name was easily had, and for a sign manual on the cover +some one drew a grizzly bear, that formidable exemplar of Californian +wildness. But the design did not quite satisfy, until Bret Harte, with +a felicitous stroke, drew two parallel lines just before the feet of the +halting brute. Now it was the grizzly of the wilderness drawing back +before the railway of civilization, and the picture was complete as an +emblem. + +Bret Harte became, by the common urgency of his companions, the first +editor of the Overland, and at once his own tales and poems began, and +in the second number appeared "The Luck of Roaring Camp," which +instantly brought him wide fame. In a few months he found himself +besought for poems and articles, sketches and stories, in influential +magazines, and in 1871 he turned away from the Pacific coast, and took +up his residence, first in New York, afterward in Boston. + +"No one," says his old friend, Mr. Stoddard, "who knows Mr. Harte, and +knew the California of his day, wonders that he left it as he did. +Eastern editors were crying for his work. Cities vied with one another +in the offer of tempting bait. When he turned his back on San +Francisco, and started for Boston, he began a tour that the greatest +author of any age might have been proud of. It was a veritable ovation +that swelled from sea to sea: the classic sheep was sacrificed all along +the route. I have often thought that if Bret Harte had met with a fatal +accident during that transcontinental journey, the world would have +declared with one voice that the greatest genius of his time was lost to +it." + +In Boston he entered into an arrangement with the predecessors of the +publishers of this volume, and his contributions appeared in their +periodicals and were gathered into volumes. The arrangement in one form +or another continued to the time of his death, and has for witness a +stately array of comely volumes; but the prose has far outstripped the +poetry. There are few writers of Mr. Harte's prodigality of nature who +have used with so much fine reserve their faculty for melodious verse, +and the present volume contains the entire body of his poetical work, +growing by minute accretions during thirty odd years. + +In 1878 he was appointed United States Consul at Crefeld, Germany, and +after that date he resided, with little interruption, on the Continent +or in England. He was transferred to Glasgow in March, 1880, and +remained there until July, 1885. During the rest of his life he made +his home in London. His foreign residence is disclosed in a number of +prose sketches and tales and in one or two poems; but life abroad never +dimmed the vividness of the impressions made on him by the experience of +his early manhood when he partook of the elixir vitae of California, and +the stories which from year to year flowed from an apparently +inexhaustible fountain glittered with the gold washed down from the +mountain slopes of that country which through his imagination he had +made so peculiarly his own. + +Mr. Harte died suddenly at Camberley, England, May 6, 1902. + + +CONTENTS + + + I. NATIONAL. + + + JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG + + "HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?" + + BATTLE BUNNY + + THE REVEILLE + + OUR PRIVILEGE + + RELIEVING GUARD + + THE GODDESS + + ON A PEN OF THOMAS STARR KING + + A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY + + THE COPPERHEAD + + A SANITARY MESSAGE + + THE OLD MAJOR EXPLAINS + + CALIFORNIA'S GREETING TO SEWARD + + THE AGED STRANGER + + THE IDYL OP BATTLE HOLLOW + + CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD + + POEM, DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALIFORNIA'S + ADMISSION INTO THE UNION + + MISS BLANCHE SAYS + + AN ARCTIC VISION + + ST. THOMAS + + OFF SCARBOROUGH + + CADET GREY + + + II. SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS. + + + THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO + + THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN + + THE ANGELUS + + CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO + + "FOR THE KING" + + RAMON + + DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH + + AT THE HACIENDA + + FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE + + IN THE MISSION GARDEN + + THE LOST GALLEON + + + III. IN DIALECT. + + + "JIM" + + CHIQUITA + + DOW'S FLAT + + IN THE TUNNEL + + "CICELY" + + PENELOPE + + PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES + + THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS + + LUKE + + "THE BABES IN THE WOODS" + + THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE + + TRUTHFUL JAMES TO THE EDITOR + + AN IDYL OF THE ROAD + + THOMPSON OF ANGELS + + THE HAWK'S NEST + + HER LETTER + + HIS ANSWER TO "HER LETTER" + + "THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS" + + FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES + + AFTER THE ACCIDENT + + THE GHOST THAT JIM SAW + + "SEVENTY-NINE" + + THE STAGE-DRIVER'S STORY + + A QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE + + THE THOUGHT-READER OF ANGELS + + THE SPELLING BEE AT ANGELS + + ARTEMIS IN SIERRA + + JACK OF THE TULES + + + IV. MISCELLANEOUS. + + + A GREYPORT LEGEND + + A NEWPORT ROMANCE + + SAN FRANCISCO + + THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE + + GRIZZLY + + MADRONO + + COYOTE + + TO A SEA-BIRD + + WHAT THE CHIMNEY SANG + + DICKENS IN CAMP + + TWENTY YEARS + + FATE + + GRANDMOTHER TENTERDEN + + GUILD'S SIGNAL + + ASPIRING MISS DELAINE + + A LEGEND OF COLOGNE + + THE TALE OF A PONY + + ON A CONE OF THE BIG TREES + + LONE MOUNTAIN + + ALNASCHAR + + THE TWO SHIPS + + ADDRESS (OPENING OF THE CALIFORNIA THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JANUARY + 19, 1870) + + DOLLY VARDEN + + TELEMACHUS VERSUS MENTOR + + WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD + + HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER + + WHAT THE BULLET SANG + + THE OLD CAMP-FIRE + + THE STATION-MASTER OF LONE PRAIRIE + + THE MISSION BELLS OF MONTEREY + + "CROTALUS" + + ON WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT + + THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER + + LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON + + HER LAST LETTER: BEING A REPLY TO "HIS ANSWER" + + + V. PARODIES. + + + BEFORE THE CURTAIN + + TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL + + THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE + + THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU + + MRS. JUDGE JENKINS + + A GEOLOGICAL MADRIGAL + + AVITOR + + THE WILLOWS + + NORTH BEACH + + THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS + + THE RITUALIST + + A MORAL VINDICATOR + + CALIFORNIA MADRIGAL + + WHAT THE ENGINES SAID + + THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE + + SONGS WITHOUT SENSE + + + VI. LITTLE POSTERITY. + + + MASTER JOHNNY'S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR + + MISS EDITH'S MODEST REQUEST + + MISS EDITH MAKES IT PLEASANT FOR BROTHER JACK + + MISS EDITH MAKES ANOTHER FRIEND + + WHAT MISS EDITH SAW FROM HER WINDOW + + ON THE LANDING + + + NOTES + + + + +POEMS + + + + +I. NATIONAL + + + + + JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG + + Have you heard the story that gossips tell + Of Burns of Gettysburg?--No? Ah, well: + Brief is the glory that hero earns, + Briefer the story of poor John Burns. + He was the fellow who won renown,-- + The only man who didn't back down + When the rebels rode through his native town; + But held his own in the fight next day, + When all his townsfolk ran away. + That was in July sixty-three, + The very day that General Lee, + Flower of Southern chivalry, + Baffled and beaten, backward reeled + From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. + + I might tell how but the day before + John Burns stood at his cottage door, + Looking down the village street, + Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, + He heard the low of his gathered kine, + And felt their breath with incense sweet; + Or I might say, when the sunset burned + The old farm gable, he thought it turned + The milk that fell like a babbling flood + Into the milk-pail red as blood! + Or how he fancied the hum of bees + Were bullets buzzing among the trees. + But all such fanciful thoughts as these + Were strange to a practical man like Burns, + Who minded only his own concerns, + Troubled no more by fancies fine + Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,-- + Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, + Slow to argue, but quick to act. + That was the reason, as some folk say, + He fought so well on that terrible day. + + And it was terrible. On the right + Raged for hours the heady fight, + Thundered the battery's double bass,-- + Difficult music for men to face + While on the left--where now the graves + Undulate like the living waves + That all that day unceasing swept + Up to the pits the rebels kept-- + Round shot ploughed the upland glades, + Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; + Shattered fences here and there + Tossed their splinters in the air; + The very trees were stripped and bare; + The barns that once held yellow grain + Were heaped with harvests of the slain; + The cattle bellowed on the plain, + The turkeys screamed with might and main, + And brooding barn-fowl left their rest + With strange shells bursting in each nest. + + Just where the tide of battle turns, + Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. + How do you think the man was dressed? + He wore an ancient long buff vest, + Yellow as saffron,--but his best; + And buttoned over his manly breast + Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, + And large gilt buttons,--size of a dollar,-- + With tails that the country-folk called "swaller." + He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, + White as the locks on which it sat. + Never had such a sight been seen + For forty years on the village green, + Since old John Burns was a country beau, + And went to the "quiltings" long ago. + + Close at his elbows all that day, + Veterans of the Peninsula, + Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; + And striplings, downy of lip and chin,-- + Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in,-- + Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, + Then at the rifle his right hand bore, + And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, + With scraps of a slangy repertoire: + "How are you, White Hat?" "Put her through!" + "Your head's level!" and "Bully for you!" + Called him "Daddy,"--begged he'd disclose + The name of the tailor who made his clothes, + And what was the value he set on those; + While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, + Stood there picking the rebels off,-- + With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat, + And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. + + 'Twas but a moment, for that respect + Which clothes all courage their voices checked; + And something the wildest could understand + Spake in the old man's strong right hand, + And his corded throat, and the lurking frown + Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; + Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe + Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, + In the antique vestments and long white hair, + The Past of the Nation in battle there; + And some of the soldiers since declare + That the gleam of his old white hat afar, + Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, + That day was their oriflamme of war. + + So raged the battle. You know the rest: + How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, + Broke at the final charge and ran. + At which John Burns--a practical man-- + Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, + And then went back to his bees and cows. + + That is the story of old John Burns; + This is the moral the reader learns: + In fighting the battle, the question's whether + You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather! + + + + +"HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?" + + Down the picket-guarded lane + Rolled the comfort-laden wain, + Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, + Soldier-like and merry: + Phrases such as camps may teach, + Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech, + Such as "Bully!" "Them's the peach!" + "Wade in, Sanitary!" + + Right and left the caissons drew + As the car went lumbering through, + Quick succeeding in review + Squadrons military; + Sunburnt men with beards like frieze, + Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these,-- + "U. S. San. Com." "That's the cheese!" + "Pass in, Sanitary!" + + In such cheer it struggled on + Till the battle front was won: + Then the car, its journey done, + Lo! was stationary; + And where bullets whistling fly + Came the sadder, fainter cry, + "Help us, brothers, ere we die,-- + Save us, Sanitary!" + + Such the work. The phantom flies, + Wrapped in battle clouds that rise: + But the brave--whose dying eyes, + Veiled and visionary, + See the jasper gates swung wide, + See the parted throng outside-- + Hears the voice to those who ride: + "Pass in, Sanitary!" + + + + +BATTLE BUNNY + + (MALVERN HILL, 1864) + + + "After the men were ordered to lie down, a white rabbit, which had + been hopping hither and thither over the field swept by grape and + musketry, took refuge among the skirmishers, in the breast of a + corporal."--Report of the Battle of Malvern Hill. + + + Bunny, lying in the grass, + Saw the shining column pass; + Saw the starry banner fly, + Saw the chargers fret and fume, + Saw the flapping hat and plume,-- + Saw them with his moist and shy + Most unspeculative eye, + Thinking only, in the dew, + That it was a fine review. + + Till a flash, not all of steel, + Where the rolling caissons wheel, + Brought a rumble and a roar + Rolling down that velvet floor, + And like blows of autumn flail + Sharply threshed the iron hail. + + Bunny, thrilled by unknown fears, + Raised his soft and pointed ears, + Mumbled his prehensile lip, + Quivered his pulsating hip, + As the sharp vindictive yell + Rose above the screaming shell; + Thought the world and all its men,-- + All the charging squadrons meant,-- + All were rabbit-hunters then, + All to capture him intent. + Bunny was not much to blame: + Wiser folk have thought the same,-- + Wiser folk who think they spy + Every ill begins with "I." + + Wildly panting here and there, + Bunny sought the freer air, + Till he hopped below the hill, + And saw, lying close and still, + Men with muskets in their hands. + (Never Bunny understands + That hypocrisy of sleep, + In the vigils grim they keep, + As recumbent on that spot + They elude the level shot.) + + One--a grave and quiet man, + Thinking of his wife and child + Far beyond the Rapidan, + Where the Androscoggin smiled-- + Felt the little rabbit creep, + Nestling by his arm and side, + Wakened from strategic sleep, + To that soft appeal replied, + Drew him to his blackened breast, + And-- But you have guessed the rest. + + Softly o'er that chosen pair + Omnipresent Love and Care + Drew a mightier Hand and Arm, + Shielding them from every harm; + Right and left the bullets waved, + Saved the saviour for the saved. + + ------ + + Who believes that equal grace + God extends in every place, + Little difference he scans + Twixt a rabbit's God and man's. + + + + +THE REVEILLE + + Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands, + And of armed men the hum; + Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered + Round the quick alarming drum,-- + Saying, "Come, + Freemen, come! + Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick alarming drum. + + "Let me of my heart take counsel: + War is not of life the sum; + Who shall stay and reap the harvest + When the autumn days shall come?" + But the drum + Echoed, "Come! + Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn-sounding drum. + + "But when won the coming battle, + What of profit springs therefrom? + What if conquest, subjugation, + Even greater ills become?" + But the drum + Answered, "Come! + You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee answering drum. + + "What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, + Whistling shot and bursting bomb, + When my brothers fall around me, + Should my heart grow cold and numb?" + But the drum + Answered, "Come! + Better there in death united, than in life a recreant.--Come!" + + Thus they answered,--hoping, fearing, + Some in faith, and doubting some, + Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, + Said, "My chosen people, come!" + Then the drum, + Lo! was dumb, + For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, "Lord, we come!" + + + + +OUR PRIVILEGE + + Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls, + And battle dews lie wet, + To meet the charge that treason hurls + By sword and bayonet. + + Not ours to guide the fatal scythe + The fleshless Reaper wields; + The harvest moon looks calmly down + Upon our peaceful fields. + + The long grass dimples on the hill, + The pines sing by the sea, + And Plenty, from her golden horn, + Is pouring far and free. + + O brothers by the farther sea! + Think still our faith is warm; + The same bright flag above us waves + That swathed our baby form. + + The same red blood that dyes your fields + Here throbs in patriot pride,-- + The blood that flowed when Lander fell, + And Baker's crimson tide. + + And thus apart our hearts keep time + With every pulse ye feel, + And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime + With Valor's clashing steel. + + + + +RELIEVING GUARD + + THOMAS STARR KING. OBIIT MARCH 4, 1864 + + Came the relief. "What, sentry, ho! + How passed the night through thy long waking?" + "Cold, cheerless, dark,--as may befit + The hour before the dawn is breaking." + + "No sight? no sound?" "No; nothing save + The plover from the marshes calling, + And in yon western sky, about + An hour ago, a star was falling." + + "A star? There's nothing strange in that." + "No, nothing; but, above the thicket, + Somehow it seemed to me that God + Somewhere had just relieved a picket." + + + + +THE GODDESS + + CONTRIBUTED TO THE FAIR FOR THE LADIES' PATRIOTIC FUND OF THE PACIFIC + + "Who comes?" The sentry's warning cry + Rings sharply on the evening air: + Who comes? The challenge: no reply, + Yet something motions there. + + A woman, by those graceful folds; + A soldier, by that martial tread: + "Advance three paces. Halt! until + Thy name and rank be said." + + "My name? Her name, in ancient song, + Who fearless from Olympus came: + Look on me! Mortals know me best + In battle and in flame." + + "Enough! I know that clarion voice; + I know that gleaming eye and helm, + Those crimson lips,--and in their dew + The best blood of the realm. + + "The young, the brave, the good and wise, + Have fallen in thy curst embrace: + The juices of the grapes of wrath + Still stain thy guilty face. + + "My brother lies in yonder field, + Face downward to the quiet grass: + Go back! he cannot see thee now; + But here thou shalt not pass." + + A crack upon the evening air, + A wakened echo from the hill: + The watchdog on the distant shore + Gives mouth, and all is still. + + The sentry with his brother lies + Face downward on the quiet grass; + And by him, in the pale moonshine, + A shadow seems to pass. + + No lance or warlike shield it bears: + A helmet in its pitying hands + Brings water from the nearest brook, + To meet his last demands. + + Can this be she of haughty mien, + The goddess of the sword and shield? + Ah, yes! The Grecian poet's myth + Sways still each battlefield. + + For not alone that rugged War + Some grace or charm from Beauty gains; + But, when the goddess' work is done, + The woman's still remains. + + + + +ON A PEN OF THOMAS STARR KING + + This is the reed the dead musician dropped, + With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden; + The prompt allegro of its music stopped, + Its melodies unbidden. + + But who shall finish the unfinished strain, + Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder, + And bid the slender barrel breathe again, + An organ-pipe of thunder! + + His pen! what humbler memories cling about + Its golden curves! what shapes and laughing graces + Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out + In smiles and courtly phrases? + + The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung; + The word of cheer, with recognition in it; + The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung + The golden gift within it. + + But all in vain the enchanter's wand we wave: + No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision: + The incantation that its power gave + Sleeps with the dead magician. + + + + +A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY + + I read last night of the grand review + In Washington's chiefest avenue,-- + Two hundred thousand men in blue, + I think they said was the number,-- + Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, + The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat, + The clatter of hoofs in the stony street, + The cheers of people who came to greet, + And the thousand details that to repeat + Would only my verse encumber,-- + Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet, + And then to a fitful slumber. + + When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand + In the lonely Capitol. On each hand + Far stretched the portico, dim and grand + Its columns ranged like a martial band + Of sheeted spectres, whom some command + Had called to a last reviewing. + And the streets of the city were white and bare, + No footfall echoed across the square; + But out of the misty midnight air + I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, + And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear + The sound of a far tattooing. + + Then I held my breath with fear and dread + For into the square, with a brazen tread, + There rode a figure whose stately head + O'erlooked the review that morning, + That never bowed from its firm-set seat + When the living column passed its feet, + Yet now rode steadily up the street + To the phantom bugle's warning: + + Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, + And there in the moonlight stood revealed + A well-known form that in State and field + Had led our patriot sires: + Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, + Afar through the river's fog and damp, + That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp, + Nor wasted bivouac fires. + + And I saw a phantom army come, + With never a sound of fife or drum, + But keeping time to a throbbing hum + Of wailing and lamentation: + The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, + Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, + The men whose wasted figures fill + The patriot graves of the nation. + + And there came the nameless dead,--the men + Who perished in fever swamp and fen, + The slowly-starved of the prison pen; + And, marching beside the others, + Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight, + With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright; + I thought--perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight-- + They looked as white as their brothers! + + And so all night marched the nation's dead, + With never a banner above them spread, + Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished; + No mark--save the bare uncovered head + Of the silent bronze Reviewer; + With never an arch save the vaulted sky; + With never a flower save those that lie + On the distant graves--for love could buy + No gift that was purer or truer. + + So all night long swept the strange array, + So all night long till the morning gray + I watched for one who had passed away; + With a reverent awe and wonder,-- + Till a blue cap waved in the length'ning line, + And I knew that one who was kin of mine + Had come; and I spake--and lo! that sign + Awakened me from my slumber. + + + + +THE COPPERHEAD + + (1864) + + There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps, + Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps, + Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air, + And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer. + There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death, + Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree's breath, + Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves,-- + There is peace: yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves. + + Go seek him: he coils in the ooze and the drip, + Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip; + But beware the false footstep,--the stumble that brings + A deadlier lash than the overseer swings. + Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread, + As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head; + Whether slave or proud planter, who braves that dull crest, + Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest! + + Then why waste your labors, brave hearts and strong men, + In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den? + Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade + To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made; + Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapors away, + Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play; + And then to your heel can you righteously doom + The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom! + + + + +A SANITARY MESSAGE + + Last night, above the whistling wind, + I heard the welcome rain,-- + A fusillade upon the roof, + A tattoo on the pane: + The keyhole piped; the chimney-top + A warlike trumpet blew; + Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife, + A softer voice stole through. + + "Give thanks, O brothers!" said the voice, + "That He who sent the rains + Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew + That drips from patriot veins: + I've seen the grass on Eastern graves + In brighter verdure rise; + But, oh! the rain that gave it life + Sprang first from human eyes. + + "I come to wash away no stain + Upon your wasted lea; + I raise no banners, save the ones + The forest waves to me: + Upon the mountain side, where Spring + Her farthest picket sets, + My reveille awakes a host + Of grassy bayonets. + + "I visit every humble roof; + I mingle with the low: + Only upon the highest peaks + My blessings fall in snow; + Until, in tricklings of the stream + And drainings of the lea, + My unspent bounty comes at last + To mingle with the sea." + + And thus all night, above the wind, + I heard the welcome rain,-- + A fusillade upon the roof, + A tattoo on the pane: + The keyhole piped; the chimney-top + A warlike trumpet blew; + But, mingling with these sounds of strife, + This hymn of peace stole through. + + + + +THE OLD MAJOR EXPLAINS + + (RE-UNION, ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, 12TH MAY, 1871) + + Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can come: + For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at home; + And my leg is getting troublesome,--it laid me up last fall,-- + And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never found the ball. + + And then, for an old man like me, it's not exactly right, + This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight. + "The Union,"--that was well enough way up to '66; + But this "Re-Union," maybe now it's mixed with politics? + + No? Well, you understand it best; but then, you see, my lad, + I'm deacon now, and some might think that the example's bad. + And week from next is Conference.... You said the twelfth of May? + Why, that's the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a! + + Hot work; eh, Colonel, wasn't it? Ye mind that narrow front: + They called it the "Death-Angle"! Well, well, my lad, we won't + Fight that old battle over now: I only meant to say + I really can't engage to come upon the twelfth of May. + + How's Thompson? What! will he be there? Well, now I want to know! + The first man in the rebel works! they called him "Swearing Joe." + A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was; but then-- + Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead his men. + + And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy? ah! it's true + We buried him at Gettysburg: I mind the spot; do you? + A little field below the hill,--it must be green this May; + Perhaps that's why the fields about bring him to me to-day. + + Well, well, excuse me, Colonel! but there are some things that drop + The tail-board out one's feelings; and the only way's to stop. + So they want to see the old man; ah, the rascals! do they, eh? + Well, I've business down in Boston about the twelfth of May. + + + + +CALIFORNIA'S GREETING TO SEWARD + + (1869) + + We know him well: no need of praise + Or bonfire from the windy hill + To light to softer paths and ways + The world-worn man we honor still. + + No need to quote the truths he spoke + That burned through years of war and shame, + While History carves with surer stroke + Across our map his noonday fame. + + No need to bid him show the scars + Of blows dealt by the Scaean gate, + Who lived to pass its shattered bars, + And see the foe capitulate: + + Who lived to turn his slower feet + Toward the western setting sun, + To see his harvest all complete, + His dream fulfilled, his duty done, + + The one flag streaming from the pole, + The one faith borne from sea to sea: + For such a triumph, and such goal, + Poor must our human greeting be. + + Ah! rather that the conscious land + In simpler ways salute the Man,-- + The tall pines bowing where they stand, + The bared head of El Capitan! + + The tumult of the waterfalls, + Pohono's kerchief in the breeze, + The waving from the rocky walls, + The stir and rustle of the trees; + + Till, lapped in sunset skies of hope, + In sunset lands by sunset seas, + The Young World's Premier treads the slope + Of sunset years in calm and peace. + + + + +THE AGED STRANGER + + AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR + + "I was with Grant"--the stranger said; + Said the farmer, "Say no more, + But rest thee here at my cottage porch, + For thy feet are weary and sore." + + "I was with Grant"--the stranger said; + Said the farmer, "Nay, no more,-- + I prithee sit at my frugal board, + And eat of my humble store. + + "How fares my boy,--my soldier boy, + Of the old Ninth Army Corps? + I warrant he bore him gallantly + In the smoke and the battle's roar!" + + "I know him not," said the aged man, + "And, as I remarked before, + I was with Grant"-- "Nay, nay, I know," + Said the farmer, "say no more: + + "He fell in battle,--I see, alas! + Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er,-- + Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, + Though it rend my bosom's core. + + "How fell he? With his face to the foe, + Upholding the flag he bore? + Oh, say not that my boy disgraced + The uniform that he wore!" + + "I cannot tell," said the aged man, + "And should have remarked before. + That I was with Grant,--in Illinois,-- + Some three years before the war." + + Then the farmer spake him never a word, + But beat with his fist full sore + That aged man who had worked for Grant + Some three years before the war. + + + + +THE IDYL OF BATTLE HOLLOW + + (WAR OF THE REBELLION, 1884) + + No, I won't,--thar, now, so! And it ain't nothin',--no! + And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know; + And it's "Belle, tell us, do!" and it's "Belle, is it true?" + And "Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you?" + Till I'm sick of it all,--so I am, but I s'pose + Thet is nothin' to you.... Well, then, listen! yer goes! + + It was after the fight, and around us all night + Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight; + And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed, + And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed: + And I ran out at daybreak, and nothin' was nigh + But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky. + + And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring, + But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing, + And a bird said "Kerchee!" as it sat on a tree, + As if it was lonesome, and glad to see me; + And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go, + When up comes the Major a-canterin' slow. + + When he saw me he drew in his reins, and then threw + On the gate-post his bridle, and--what does he do + But come down where I sat; and he lifted his hat, + And he says--well, thar ain't any need to tell THAT; + 'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this, + Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted--a kiss. + + Then I said (I was mad), "For the water, my lad, + You're too big and must stoop; for a kiss, it's as bad,-- + You ain't near big enough." And I turned in a huff, + When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff, + And he says, "You're a trump! Take my pistol, don't fear! + But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear." + + Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool, + Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool, + When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light + From the top of the little stone fence on the right, + And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it all + Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall! + + Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head + Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead; + And I stood still and white, but Lord! gals, in spite + Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright! + Went off--true as gospil!--and, strangest of all, + It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall! + + Thet's all--now, go 'long! Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong, + And thar's some wants to know to what side I belong; + But I says, "Served him right!" and I go, all my might, + In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight; + And as for the Major--sho! gals, don't you know + Thet--Lord! thar's his step in the garden below. + + + + +CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD + + (NEW JERSEY, 1780) + + Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height + Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right + Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,-- + You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball. + Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow, + Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. + + Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment: you've heard + Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word + Down at Springfield? What, no? Come--that's bad; why, he had + All the Jerseys aflame! And they gave him the name + Of the "rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge, + For he loved the Lord God--and he hated King George! + + He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day + Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way + At the "farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms, + Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew + But God--and that one of the hireling crew + Who fired the shot! Enough!--there she lay, + And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away! + + Did he preach--did he pray? Think of him as you stand + By the old church to-day,--think of him and his band + Of militant ploughboys! See the smoke and the heat + Of that reckless advance, of that straggling retreat! + Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view-- + And what could you, what should you, what would YOU do? + + Why, just what HE did! They were left in the lurch + For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church, + Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road + With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load + At their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots + Rang his voice: "Put Watts into 'em! Boys, give 'em Watts!" + + And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow, + Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. + You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball-- + But not always a hero like this--and that's all. + + + + +POEM + + DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALIFORNIA'S ADMISSION + INTO THE UNION, SEPTEMBER 9, 1864 + + We meet in peace, though from our native East + The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast + Glanced as he rose on fields whose dews were red + With darker tints than those Aurora spread. + Though shorn his rays, his welcome disk concealed + In the dim smoke that veiled each battlefield, + Still striving upward, in meridian pride, + He climbed the walls that East and West divide,-- + Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand, + And sapphire seas that lave the Western land. + + Strange was the contrast that such scenes disclose + From his high vantage o'er eternal snows; + There War's alarm the brazen trumpet rings-- + Here his love-song the mailed cicala sings; + There bayonets glitter through the forest glades-- + Here yellow cornfields stack their peaceful blades; + There the deep trench where Valor finds a grave-- + Here the long ditch that curbs the peaceful wave; + There the bold sapper with his lighted train-- + Here the dark tunnel and its stores of gain; + Here the full harvest and the wain's advance-- + There the Grim Reaper and the ambulance. + + With scenes so adverse, what mysterious bond + Links our fair fortunes to the shores beyond? + Why come we here--last of a scattered fold-- + To pour new metal in the broken mould? + To yield our tribute, stamped with Caesar's face, + To Caesar, stricken in the market-place? + + Ah! love of country is the secret tie + That joins these contrasts 'neath one arching sky; + Though brighter paths our peaceful steps explore, + We meet together at the Nation's door. + War winds her horn, and giant cliffs go down + Like the high walls that girt the sacred town, + And bares the pathway to her throbbing heart, + From clustered village and from crowded mart. + + Part of God's providence it was to found + A Nation's bulwark on this chosen ground; + Not Jesuit's zeal nor pioneer's unrest + Planted these pickets in the distant West, + But He who first the Nation's fate forecast + Placed here His fountains sealed for ages past, + Rock-ribbed and guarded till the coming time + Should fit the people for their work sublime; + When a new Moses with his rod of steel + Smote the tall cliffs with one wide-ringing peal, + And the old miracle in record told + To the new Nation was revealed in gold. + + Judge not too idly that our toils are mean, + Though no new levies marshal on our green; + Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small, + Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall. + See, where thick vapor wreathes the battle-line; + There Mercy follows with her oil and wine; + Or where brown Labor with its peaceful charm + Stiffens the sinews of the Nation's arm. + What nerves its hands to strike a deadlier blow + And hurl its legions on the rebel foe? + Lo! for each town new rising o'er our State + See the foe's hamlet waste and desolate, + While each new factory lifts its chimney tall, + Like a fresh mortar trained on Richmond's wall. + + For this, O brothers, swings the fruitful vine, + Spread our broad pastures with their countless kine: + For this o'erhead the arching vault springs clear, + Sunlit and cloudless for one half the year; + For this no snowflake, e'er so lightly pressed, + Chills the warm impulse of our mother's breast. + Quick to reply, from meadows brown and sere, + She thrills responsive to Spring's earliest tear; + Breaks into blossom, flings her loveliest rose + Ere the white crocus mounts Atlantic snows; + And the example of her liberal creed + Teaches the lesson that to-day we heed. + + Thus ours the lot with peaceful, generous hand + To spread our bounty o'er the suffering land; + As the deep cleft in Mariposa's wall + Hurls a vast river splintering in its fall,-- + Though the rapt soul who stands in awe below + Sees but the arching of the promised bow, + Lo! the far streamlet drinks its dews unseen, + And the whole valley wakes a brighter green. + + + + +MISS BLANCHE SAYS + + And you are the poet, and so you want + Something--what is it?--a theme, a fancy? + Something or other the Muse won't grant + To your old poetical necromancy; + Why, one half you poets--you can't deny-- + Don't know the Muse when you chance to meet her, + But sit in your attics and mope and sigh + For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky, + When flesh and blood may be standing by + Quite at your service, should you but greet her. + + What if I told you my own romance? + Women are poets, if you so take them, + One third poet,--the rest what chance + Of man and marriage may choose to make them. + Give me ten minutes before you go,-- + Here at the window we'll sit together, + Watching the currents that ebb and flow; + Watching the world as it drifts below + Up the hot Avenue's dusty glow: + Isn't it pleasant, this bright June weather? + + Well, it was after the war broke out, + And I was a schoolgirl fresh from Paris; + Papa had contracts, and roamed about, + And I--did nothing--for I was an heiress. + Picked some lint, now I think; perhaps + Knitted some stockings--a dozen nearly: + Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps; + Stood at fair-tables and peddled traps + Quite at a profit. The "shoulder-straps" + Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you! really? + + Still it was stupid. Rata-tat-tat! + Those were the sounds of that battle summer, + Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat, + And every footfall the tap of a drummer; + And day by day down the Avenue went + Cavalry, infantry, all together, + Till my pitying angel one day sent + My fate in the shape of a regiment, + That halted, just as the day was spent, + Here at our door in the bright June weather. + + None of your dandy warriors they,-- + Men from the West, but where I know not; + Haggard and travel-stained, worn and gray, + With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot: + And I opened the window, and, leaning there, + I felt in their presence the free winds blowing. + My neck and shoulders and arms were bare,-- + I did not dream they might think me fair, + But I had some flowers that night in my hair, + And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing. + + And I looked from the window along the line, + Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn, + Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine, + And a dark face shone from the darkening column, + And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair, + Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together, + And the next I found myself standing there + With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair, + And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air, + Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather. + + Then I drew back quickly: there came a cheer, + A rush of figures, a noise and tussle, + And then it was over, and high and clear + My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle. + Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried, + And slowly and steadily, all together, + Shoulder to shoulder and side to side, + Rising and falling and swaying wide, + But bearing above them the rose, my pride, + They marched away in the twilight weather. + + And I leaned from my window and watched my rose + Tossed on the waves of the surging column, + Warmed from above in the sunset glows, + Borne from below by an impulse solemn. + Then I shut the window. I heard no more + Of my soldier friend, nor my flower neither, + But lived my life as I did before. + I did not go as a nurse to the war,-- + Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore,-- + So I didn't go to the hospital either. + + You smile, O poet, and what do you? + You lean from your window, and watch life's column + Trampling and struggling through dust and dew, + Filled with its purposes grave and solemn; + And an act, a gesture, a face--who knows?-- + Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you, + And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows + And down it flies like my red, red rose, + And you sit and dream as away it goes, + And think that your duty is done,--now don't you? + + I know your answer. I'm not yet through. + Look at this photograph,--"In the Trenches"! + That dead man in the coat of blue + Holds a withered rose in his hand. That clenches + Nothing!--except that the sun paints true, + And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded. + And that's my romance. And, poet, you + Take it and mould it to suit your view; + And who knows but you may find it too + Come to your heart once more, as mine did. + + + + +AN ARCTIC VISION + + Where the short-legged Esquimaux + Waddle in the ice and snow, + And the playful Polar bear + Nips the hunter unaware; + Where by day they track the ermine, + And by night another vermin,-- + Segment of the frigid zone, + Where the temperature alone + Warms on St. Elias' cone; + Polar dock, where Nature slips + From the ways her icy ships; + Land of fox and deer and sable, + Shore end of our western cable,-- + Let the news that flying goes + Thrill through all your Arctic floes, + And reverberate the boast + From the cliffs off Beechey's coast, + Till the tidings, circling round + Every bay of Norton Sound, + Throw the vocal tide-wave back + To the isles of Kodiac. + Let the stately Polar bears + Waltz around the pole in pairs, + And the walrus, in his glee, + Bare his tusk of ivory; + While the bold sea-unicorn + Calmly takes an extra horn; + All ye Polar skies, reveal your + Very rarest of parhelia; + Trip it, all ye merry dancers, + In the airiest of "Lancers;" + Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide, + One inch farther to the tide, + Nor in rash precipitation + Upset Tyndall's calculation. + Know you not what fate awaits you, + Or to whom the future mates you? + All ye icebergs, make salaam,-- + You belong to Uncle Sam! + + On the spot where Eugene Sue + Led his wretched Wandering Jew, + Stands a form whose features strike + Russ and Esquimaux alike. + He it is whom Skalds of old + In their Runic rhymes foretold; + Lean of flank and lank of jaw, + See the real Northern Thor! + See the awful Yankee leering + Just across the Straits of Behring; + On the drifted snow, too plain, + Sinks his fresh tobacco stain, + Just beside the deep inden- + Tation of his Number 10. + + Leaning on his icy hammer + Stands the hero of this drama, + And above the wild-duck's clamor, + In his own peculiar grammar, + With its linguistic disguises, + La! the Arctic prologue rises: + "Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad, + Seein' ez 'twas all they had. + + True, the Springs are rather late, + And early Falls predominate; + But the ice-crop's pretty sure, + And the air is kind o' pure; + 'Tain't so very mean a trade, + When the land is all surveyed. + There's a right smart chance for fur-chase + All along this recent purchase, + And, unless the stories fail, + Every fish from cod to whale; + Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,-- + 'Twould be strange if there should be,-- + Seems I've heerd such stories told; + Eh!--why, bless us,--yes, it's gold!" + + While the blows are falling thick + From his California pick, + You may recognize the Thor + Of the vision that I saw,-- + Freed from legendary glamour, + See the real magician's hammer. + + + + +ST. THOMAS + + (A GEOGRAPHICAL SURVEY, 1868) + + Very fair and full of promise + Lay the island of St. Thomas: + Ocean o'er its reefs and bars + Hid its elemental scars; + Groves of cocoanut and guava + Grew above its fields of lava. + So the gem of the Antilles-- + "Isles of Eden," where no ill is-- + Like a great green turtle slumbered + On the sea that it encumbered. + + Then said William Henry Seward, + As he cast his eye to leeward, + "Quite important to our commerce + Is this island of St. Thomas." + + Said the Mountain ranges, "Thank'ee, + But we cannot stand the Yankee + O'er our scars and fissures poring, + In our very vitals boring, + In our sacred caverns prying, + All our secret problems trying,-- + Digging, blasting, with dynamit + Mocking all our thunders! Damn it! + Other lands may be more civil; + Bust our lava crust if we will!" + + Said the Sea, its white teeth gnashing + Through its coral-reef lips flashing, + "Shall I let this scheming mortal + Shut with stone my shining portal, + Curb my tide and check my play, + Fence with wharves my shining bay? + Rather let me be drawn out + In one awful waterspout!" + + Said the black-browed Hurricane, + Brooding down the Spanish Main, + "Shall I see my forces, zounds! + Measured by square inch and pounds, + With detectives at my back + When I double on my track, + And my secret paths made clear, + Published o'er the hemisphere + To each gaping, prying crew? + Shall I? Blow me if I do!" + + So the Mountains shook and thundered, + And the Hurricane came sweeping, + And the people stared and wondered + As the Sea came on them leaping: + Each, according to his promise, + Made things lively at St. Thomas. + + Till one morn, when Mr. Seward + Cast his weather eye to leeward, + There was not an inch of dry land + Left to mark his recent island. + Not a flagstaff or a sentry, + Not a wharf or port of entry,-- + Only--to cut matters shorter-- + Just a patch of muddy water + In the open ocean lying, + And a gull above it flying. + + + + +OFF SCARBOROUGH + + (SEPTEMBER, 1779) + + I + + "Have a care!" the bailiffs cried + From their cockleshell that lay + Off the frigate's yellow side, + Tossing on Scarborough Bay, + While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched away. + "Take your chicks beneath your wings, + And your claws and feathers spread, + Ere the hawk upon them springs,-- + Ere around Flamborough Head + Swoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and talons red." + + II + + How we laughed!--my mate and I,-- + On the "Bon Homme Richard's" deck, + As we saw that convoy fly + Like a snow-squall, till each fleck + Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by speck; + And scuffling back to shore + The Scarborough bailiffs sped, + As the "Richard" with a roar + Of her cannon round the Head, + Crossed her royal yards and signaled to her consort: "Chase ahead" + + III + + But the devil seize Landais + In that consort ship of France! + For the shabby, lubber way + That he worked the "Alliance" + In the offing,--nor a broadside fired save to our mischance!-- + When tumbling to the van, + With his battle-lanterns set, + Rose the burly Englishman + 'Gainst our hull as black as jet,-- + Rode the yellow-sided "Serapis," and all alone we met! + + IV + + All alone, though far at sea + Hung his consort, rounding to; + All alone, though on our lee + Fought our "Pallas," stanch and true! + For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle drew: + And, like champions in a ring, + There was cleared a little space-- + Scarce a cable's length to swing-- + Ere we grappled in embrace, + All the world shut out around us, and we only face to face! + + V + + Then awoke all hell below + From that broadside, doubly curst, + For our long eighteens in row + Leaped the first discharge and burst! + And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own guns the worst. + And as dumb we lay, till, through + Smoke and flame and bitter cry, + Hailed the "Serapis:" "Have you + Struck your colors?" Our reply, + "We have not yet begun to fight!" went shouting to the sky! + + VI + + Roux of Brest, old fisher, lay + Like a herring gasping here; + Bunker of Nantucket Bay, + Blown from out the port, dropped sheer + Half a cable's length to leeward; yet we faintly raised a cheer + As with his own right hand + Our Commodore made fast + The foeman's head-gear and + The "Richard's" mizzen-mast, + And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to last! + + VII + + Yet the foeman, gun on gun, + Through the "Richard" tore a road, + With his gunners' rammers run + Through our ports at every load, + Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers showed. + Yet with entrails torn we clung + Like the Spartan to our fox, + And on deck no coward tongue + Wailed the enemy's hard knocks, + Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks. + + VIII + + Then a thought rose in my brain, + As through Channel mists the sun. + From our tops a fire like rain + Drove below decks every one + Of the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a gun: + And that thought took shape as I + On the "Richard's" yard lay out, + That a man might do and die, + If the doing brought about + Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates' cheering shout! + + IX + + Then I crept out in the dark + Till I hung above the hatch + Of the "Serapis,"--a mark + For her marksmen!--with a match + And a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to snatch + One last look at sea and sky! + At the lighthouse on the hill! + At the harvest-moon on high! + And our pine flag fluttering still! + Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that devil's pill! + + X + + Then a blank was all between + As the flames around me spun! + Had I fired the magazine? + Was the victory lost or won? + Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was done: + For I lay among the dead + In the cockpit of our foe, + With a roar above my head,-- + Till a trampling to and fro, + And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what now you know! + + + + +CADET GREY + + CANTO I + + I + + Act first, scene first. A study. Of a kind + Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave; + Rare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mind + Of common man to compass or to crave; + Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined + The soul at first to trifling, till, dismayed + By text and title, it drew back resigned, + Nor cared with levity to vex a shade + That to itself such perfect concord made. + + II + + Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain + Of Jones, Lawgiver to the Commonwealth, + As on the threshold of this chaste domain + He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth + To darkened canvases that frowned amain, + With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began + To spread their roots in Georgius Primus' reign, + Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan, + Their century fruit,--the perfect Boston man. + + III + + Somewhere within that Russia-scented gloom + A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear: + "Brief is our business, Jones. Look round this room! + Regard yon portraits! Read their meaning clear! + These much proclaim MY station. I presume + YOU are our Congressman, before whose wit + And sober judgment shall the youth appear + Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit + To serve his country and to honor it." + + IV + + "Such is my son! Elsewhere perhaps 'twere wise + Trial competitive should guide your choice. + There are some people I can well surmise + Themselves must show their merits. History's voice + Spares me that trouble: all desert that lies + In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day, + Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy's,-- + Reverts to him; entailed, as one might say; + In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey!" + + V + + He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled, + On the cropped head of one who stood beside. + Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy child + Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride; + 'Twas but a Mind that somehow had beguiled + From soulless Matter processes that served + For speech and motion and digestion mild, + Content if all one moral purpose nerved, + Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved. + + VI + + He was scarce eighteen. Yet ere he was eight + He had despoiled the classics; much he knew + Of Sanskrit; not that he placed undue weight + On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew, + His favorite tongue. He learned, alas! too late, + One can't begin too early,--would regret + That boyish whim to ascertain the state + Of Venus' atmosphere made him forget + That philologic goal on which his soul was set. + + VII + + He too had traveled; at the age of ten + Found Paris empty, dull except for art + And accent. "Mabille" with its glories then + Less than Egyptian "Almees" touched a heart + Nothing if not pure classic. If some men + Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit, + But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen, + The better to instruct them, through some sheet + Published in Boston, and signed "Beacon Street." + + VIII + + From premises so plain the blind could see + But one deduction, and it came next day. + "In times like these, the very name of G. + Speaks volumes," wrote the Honorable J. + "Inclosed please find appointment." Presently + Came a reception to which Harvard lent + Fourteen professors, and, to give esprit, + The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent, + Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment. + + IX + + Four poets came who loved each other's song, + And two philosophers, who thought that they + Were in most things impractical and wrong; + And two reformers, each in his own way + Peculiar,--one who had waxed strong + On herbs and water, and such simple fare; + Two foreign lions, "Ram See" and "Chy Long," + And several artists claimed attention there, + Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere. + + X + + With this indorsement nothing now remained + But counsel, Godspeed, and some calm adieux; + No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained, + And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew. + A slight publicity, such as obtained + In classic Rome, these few last hours attended. + The day arrived, the train and depot gained, + The mayor's own presence this last act commended + The train moved off and here the first act ended. + + CANTO II + + I + + Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield + Turns the whole river eastward through the pass; + Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed + Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas; + Where buttressed low against the storms that wield + Their summer lightnings where her eaglets swarm, + By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeled + Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm + Of leveled lances bares her bosom warm. + + II + + But not to-night. The air and woods are still, + The faintest rustle in the trees below, + The lowest tremor from the mountain rill, + Come to the ear as but the trailing flow + Of spirit robes that walk unseen the hill; + The moon low sailing o'er the upland farm, + The moon low sailing where the waters fill + The lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm, + Gleams like a chevron on the river's arm. + + III + + All space breathes languor: from the hilltop high, + Where Putnam's bastion crumbles in the past, + To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lie + And wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast; + Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and die + On the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream; + Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by, + Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleam + Far on the level plain, then passes as a dream. + + IV + + Soft down the line of darkened battlements, + Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls, + Where the low arching sallyport indents, + Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam falls. + All is repose save where the camping tents + Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound + No morning guns for reveille, nor whence + No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found + Waiting and present on each sentry's round. + + V + + Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave, + Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame, + Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave; + Bred to fear nothing but reproach and blame, + Ascetic dandies o'er whom vestals rave, + Clean-limbed young Spartans, disciplined young elves, + Taught to destroy, that they may live to save, + Students embattled, soldiers at their shelves, + Heroes whose conquests are at first themselves. + + VI + + Within the camp they lie, in dreams are freed + From the grim discipline they learn to love; + In dreams no more the sentry's challenge heed, + In dreams afar beyond their pickets rove; + One treads once more the piny paths that lead + To his green mountain home, and pausing hears + The cattle call; one treads the tangled weed + Of slippery rocks beside Atlantic piers; + One smiles in sleep, one wakens wet with tears. + + VII + + One scents the breath of jasmine flowers that twine + The pillared porches of his Southern home; + One hears the coo of pigeons in the pine + Of Western woods where he was wont to roam; + One sees the sunset fire the distant line + Where the long prairie sweeps its levels down; + One treads the snow-peaks; one by lamps that shine + Down the broad highways of the sea-girt town; + And two are missing,--Cadets Grey and Brown! + + VIII + + Much as I grieve to chronicle the fact, + That selfsame truant known as "Cadet Grey" + Was the young hero of our moral tract, + Shorn of his twofold names on entrance-day. + "Winthrop" and "Adams" dropped in that one act + Of martial curtness, and the roll-call thinned + Of his ancestors, he with youthful tact + Indulgence claimed, since Winthrop no more sinned, + Nor sainted Adams winced when he, plain Grey, was "skinned." + + + IX + + He had known trials since we saw him last, + By sheer good luck had just escaped rejection, + Not for his learning, but that it was cast + In a spare frame scarce fit for drill inspection; + But when he ope'd his lips a stream so vast + Of information flooded each professor, + They quite forgot his eyeglass,--something past + All precedent,--accepting the transgressor, + Weak eyes and all of which he was possessor. + + X + + E'en the first day he touched a blackboard's space-- + So the tradition of his glory lingers-- + Two wise professors fainted, each with face + White as the chalk within his rapid fingers: + All day he ciphered, at such frantic pace, + His form was hid in chalk precipitation + Of every problem, till they said his case + Could meet from them no fair examination + Till Congress made a new appropriation. + + XI + + Famous in molecules, he demonstrated + From the mess hash to many a listening classful; + Great as a botanist, he separated + Three kinds of "Mentha" in one julep's glassful; + High in astronomy, it has been stated + He was the first at West Point to discover + Mars' missing satellites, and calculated + Their true positions, not the heavens over, + But 'neath the window of Miss Kitty Rover. + + XII + + Indeed, I fear this novelty celestial + That very night was visible and clear; + At least two youths of aspect most terrestrial, + And clad in uniform, were loitering near + A villa's casement, where a gentle vestal + Took their impatience somewhat patiently, + Knowing the youths were somewhat green and "bestial"-- + (A certain slang of the Academy, + I beg the reader won't refer to me). + + XIII + + For when they ceased their ardent strain, Miss Kitty + Glowed not with anger nor a kindred flame, + But rather flushed with an odd sort of pity, + Half matron's kindness, and half coquette's shame; + Proud yet quite blameful, when she heard their ditty + She gave her soul poetical expression, + And being clever too, as she was pretty, + From her high casement warbled this confession,-- + Half provocation and one half repression:-- + + + NOT YET + + Not yet, O friend, not yet! the patient stars + Lean from their lattices, content to wait. + All is illusion till the morning bars + Slip from the levels of the Eastern gate. + Night is too young, O friend! day is too near; + Wait for the day that maketh all things clear. + Not yet, O friend, not yet! + + Not yet, O love, not yet! all is not true, + All is not ever as it seemeth now. + Soon shall the river take another blue, + Soon dies yon light upon the mountain brow. + What lieth dark, O love, bright day will fill; + Wait for thy morning, be it good or ill. + Not yet, O love, not yet! + + + XIV + + The strain was finished; softly as the night + Her voice died from the window, yet e'en then + Fluttered and fell likewise a kerchief white; + But that no doubt was accident, for when + She sought her couch she deemed her conduct quite + Beyond the reach of scandalous commenter,-- + Washing her hands of either gallant wight, + Knowing the moralist might compliment her,-- + Thus voicing Siren with the words of Mentor. + + XV + + She little knew the youths below, who straight + Dived for her kerchief, and quite overlooked + The pregnant moral she would inculcate; + Nor dreamed the less how little Winthrop brooked + Her right to doubt his soul's maturer state. + Brown--who was Western, amiable, and new-- + Might take the moral and accept his fate; + The which he did, but, being stronger too, + Took the white kerchief, also, as his due. + + XVI + + They did not quarrel, which no doubt seemed queer + To those who knew not how their friendship blended; + Each was opposed, and each the other's peer, + Yet each the other in some things transcended. + Where Brown lacked culture, brains,--and oft, I fear, + Cash in his pocket,--Grey of course supplied him; + Where Grey lacked frankness, force, and faith sincere, + Brown of his manhood suffered none to chide him, + But in his faults stood manfully beside him. + + XVII + + In academic walks and studies grave, + In the camp drill and martial occupation, + They helped each other: but just here I crave + Space for the reader's full imagination,-- + The fact is patent, Grey became a slave! + A tool, a fag, a "pleb"! To state it plainer, + All that blue blood and ancestry e'er gave + Cleaned guns, brought water!--was, in fact, retainer + To Jones, whose uncle was a paper-stainer! + + XVIII + + How they bore this at home I cannot say: + I only know so runs the gossip's tale. + It chanced one day that the paternal Grey + Came to West Point that he himself might hail + The future hero in some proper way + Consistent with his lineage. With him came + A judge, a poet, and a brave array + Of aunts and uncles, bearing each a name, + Eyeglass and respirator with the same. + + XIX + + "Observe!" quoth Grey the elder to his friends, + "Not in these giddy youths at baseball playing + You'll notice Winthrop Adams! Greater ends + Than these absorb HIS leisure. No doubt straying + With Caesar's Commentaries, he attends + Some Roman council. Let us ask, however, + Yon grimy urchin, who my soul offends + By wheeling offal, if he will endeavor + To find-- What! heaven! Winthrop! Oh! no! never!" + + XX + + Alas! too true! The last of all the Greys + Was "doing police detail,"--it had come + To this; in vain the rare historic bays + That crowned the pictured Puritans at home! + And yet 'twas certain that in grosser ways + Of health and physique he was quite improving. + Straighter he stood, and had achieved some praise + In other exercise, much more behooving + A soldier's taste than merely dirt removing. + + XXI + + But to resume: we left the youthful pair, + Some stanzas back, before a lady's bower; + 'Tis to be hoped they were no longer there, + For stars were pointing to the morning hour. + Their escapade discovered, ill 'twould fare + With our two heroes, derelict of orders; + But, like the ghost, they "scent the morning air," + And back again they steal across the borders, + Unseen, unheeded, by their martial warders. + + XXII + + They got to bed with speed: young Grey to dream + Of some vague future with a general's star, + And Mistress Kitty basking in its gleam; + While Brown, content to worship her afar, + Dreamed himself dying by some lonely stream, + Having snatched Kitty from eighteen Nez Perces, + Till a far bugle, with the morning beam, + In his dull ear its fateful song rehearses, + Which Winthrop Adams after put to verses. + + XXIII + + So passed three years of their novitiate, + The first real boyhood Grey had ever known. + His youth ran clear,--not choked like his Cochituate, + In civic pipes, but free and pure alone; + Yet knew repression, could himself habituate + To having mind and body well rubbed down, + Could read himself in others, and could situate + Themselves in him,--except, I grieve to own, + He couldn't see what Kitty saw in Brown! + + XXIV + + At last came graduation; Brown received + In the One Hundredth Cavalry commission; + Then frolic, flirting, parting,--when none grieved + Save Brown, who loved our young Academician. + And Grey, who felt his friend was still deceived + By Mistress Kitty, who with other beauties + Graced the occasion, and it was believed + Had promised Brown that when he could recruit his + Promised command, she'd share with him those duties. + + XXV + + Howe'er this was I know not; all I know, + The night was June's, the moon rode high and clear; + "'Twas such a night as this," three years ago, + Miss Kitty sang the song that two might hear. + There is a walk where trees o'erarching grow, + Too wide for one, not wide enough for three + (A fact precluding any plural beau), + Which quite explained Miss Kitty's company, + But not why Grey that favored one should be. + + XXVI + + There is a spring, whose limpid waters hide + Somewhere within the shadows of that path + Called Kosciusko's. There two figures bide,-- + Grey and Miss Kitty. Surely Nature hath + No fairer mirror for a might-be bride + Than this same pool that caught our gentle belle + To its dark heart one moment. At her side + Grey bent. A something trembled o'er the well, + Bright, spherical--a tear? Ah no! a button fell! + + XXVII + + "Material minds might think that gravitation," + Quoth Grey, "drew yon metallic spheroid down. + The soul poetic views the situation + Fraught with more meaning. When thy girlish crown + Was mirrored there, there was disintegration + Of me, and all my spirit moved to you, + Taking the form of slow precipitation!" + But here came "Taps," a start, a smile, adieu! + A blush, a sigh, and end of Canto II. + + BUGLE SONG + + Fades the light, + And afar + Goeth day, cometh night; + And a star + Leadeth all, + Speedeth all + To their rest! + + Love, good-night! + Must thou go + When the day + And the light + Need thee so,-- + Needeth all, + Heedeth all, + That is best? + + CANTO III + + I + + Where the sun sinks through leagues of arid sky, + Where the sun dies o'er leagues of arid plain, + Where the dead bones of wasted rivers lie, + Trailed from their channels in yon mountain chain; + Where day by day naught takes the wearied eye + But the low-rimming mountains, sharply based + On the dead levels, moving far or nigh, + As the sick vision wanders o'er the waste, + But ever day by day against the sunset traced: + + II + + There moving through a poisonous cloud that stings + With dust of alkali the trampling band + Of Indian ponies, ride on dusky wings + The red marauders of the Western land; + Heavy with spoil, they seek the trail that brings + Their flaunting lances to that sheltered bank + Where lie their lodges; and the river sings + Forgetful of the plain beyond, that drank + Its life blood, where the wasted caravan sank. + + III + + They brought with them the thief's ignoble spoil, + The beggar's dole, the greed of chiffonnier, + The scum of camps, the implements of toil + Snatched from dead hands, to rust as useless here; + All they could rake or glean from hut or soil + Piled their lean ponies, with the jackdaw's greed + For vacant glitter. It were scarce a foil + To all this tinsel that one feathered reed + Bore on its barb two scalps that freshly bleed! + + IV + + They brought with them, alas! a wounded foe, + Bound hand and foot, yet nursed with cruel care, + Lest that in death he might escape one throe + They had decreed his living flesh should bear: + A youthful officer, by one foul blow + Of treachery surprised, yet fighting still + Amid his ambushed train, calm as the snow + Above him; hopeless, yet content to spill + His blood with theirs, and fighting but to kill. + + V + + He had fought nobly, and in that brief spell + Had won the awe of those rude border men + Who gathered round him, and beside him fell + In loyal faith and silence, save that when + By smoke embarrassed, and near sight as well, + He paused to wipe his eyeglass, and decide + Its nearer focus, there arose a yell + Of approbation, and Bob Barker cried, + "Wade in, Dundreary!" tossed his cap and--died. + + VI + + Their sole survivor now! his captors bear + Him all unconscious, and beside the stream + Leave him to rest; meantime the squaws prepare + The stake for sacrifice: nor wakes a gleam + Of pity in those Furies' eyes that glare + Expectant of the torture; yet alway + His steadfast spirit shines and mocks them there + With peace they know not, till at close of day + On his dull ear there thrills a whispered "Grey!" + + VII + + He starts! Was it a trick? Had angels kind + Touched with compassion some weak woman's breast? + Such things he'd read of! Faintly to his mind + Came Pocahontas pleading for her guest. + But then, this voice, though soft, was still inclined + To baritone! A squaw in ragged gown + Stood near him, frowning hatred. Was he blind? + Whose eye was this beneath that beetling frown? + The frown was painted, but that wink meant--Brown! + + VIII + + "Hush! for your life and mine! the thongs are cut," + He whispers; "in yon thicket stands my horse. + One dash!--I follow close, as if to glut + My own revenge, yet bar the others' course. + Now!" And 'tis done. Grey speeds, Brown follows; but + Ere yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels, + Yet not before Brown's circling arms close shut + His in, uplifting him! Anon he feels + A horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling heels. + + IX + + Then rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprang + Headlong the savages in swift pursuit; + Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hang + Hot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot. + Long is the chase; Brown hears with inward pang + The short, hard panting of his gallant steed + Beneath its double burden; vainly rang + Both voice and spur. The heaving flanks may bleed, + Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed! + + X + + Brown saw it--reined his steed; dismounting, stood + Calm and inflexible. "Old chap! you see + There is but ONE escape. You know it? Good! + There is ONE man to take it. You are he. + The horse won't carry double. If he could, + 'Twould but protract this bother. I shall stay: + I've business with these devils, they with me; + I will occupy them till you get away. + Hush! quick time, forward. There! God bless you, Grey!" + + XI + + But as he finished, Grey slipped to his feet, + Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye: + "You do forget yourself when you compete + With him whose RIGHT it is to stay and die: + That's not YOUR duty. Please regain your seat; + And take my ORDERS--since I rank you here!-- + Mount and rejoin your men, and my defeat + Report at quarters. Take this letter; ne'er + Give it to aught but HER, nor let aught interfere." + + XII + + And, shamed and blushing, Brown the letter took + Obediently and placed it in his pocket; + Then, drawing forth another, said, "I look + For death as you do, wherefore take this locket + And letter." Here his comrade's hand he shook + In silence. "Should we both together fall, + Some other man"--but here all speech forsook + His lips, as ringing cheerily o'er all + He heard afar his own dear bugle-call! + + XIII + + 'Twas his command and succor, but e'en then + Grey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgot + He likewise had been wounded, and both men + Were picked up quite unconscious of their lot. + Long lay they in extremity, and when + They both grew stronger, and once more exchanged + Old vows and memories, one common "den" + In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged, + Awaiting orders, but no more estranged. + + XIV + + And yet 'twas strange--nor can I end my tale + Without this moral, to be fair and just: + They never sought to know why each did fail + The prompt fulfillment of the other's trust. + It was suggested they could not avail + Themselves of either letter, since they were + Duly dispatched to their address by mail + By Captain X., who knew Miss Rover fair + Now meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank Square. + + + + + +II. SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS + + + + +THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO + + This is the tale that the Chronicle + Tells of the wonderful miracle + Wrought by the pious Padre Serro, + The very reverend Junipero. + + The heathen stood on his ancient mound, + Looking over the desert bound + Into the distant, hazy South, + Over the dusty and broad champaign, + Where, with many a gaping mouth + And fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth, + For seven months had the wasted plain + Known no moisture of dew or rain. + The wells were empty and choked with sand; + The rivers had perished from the land; + Only the sea-fogs to and fro + Slipped like ghosts of the streams below. + Deep in its bed lay the river's bones, + Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones, + And tracked o'er the desert faint and far, + Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar. + + Thus they stood as the sun went down + Over the foot-hills bare and brown; + Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom + The pale-face medicine-man should come, + Not in anger or in strife, + But to bring--so ran the tale-- + The welcome springs of eternal life, + The living waters that should not fail. + + Said one, "He will come like Manitou, + Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew." + Said another, "He will come full soon + Out of the round-faced watery moon." + And another said, "He is here!" and lo, + Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow, + Out from the desert's blinding heat + The Padre dropped at the heathen's feet. + + They stood and gazed for a little space + Down on his pallid and careworn face, + And a smile of scorn went round the band + As they touched alternate with foot and hand + This mortal waif, that the outer space + Of dim mysterious sky and sand + Flung with so little of Christian grace + Down on their barren, sterile strand. + + Said one to him: "It seems thy God + Is a very pitiful kind of God: + He could not shield thine aching eyes + From the blowing desert sands that rise, + Nor turn aside from thy old gray head + The glittering blade that is brandished + By the sun He set in the heavens high; + He could not moisten thy lips when dry; + The desert fire is in thy brain; + Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain. + If this be the grace He showeth thee + Who art His servant, what may we, + Strange to His ways and His commands, + Seek at His unforgiving hands?" + + "Drink but this cup," said the Padre, straight, + "And thou shalt know whose mercy bore + These aching limbs to your heathen door, + And purged my soul of its gross estate. + Drink in His name, and thou shalt see + The hidden depths of this mystery. + Drink!" and he held the cup. One blow + From the heathen dashed to the ground below + The sacred cup that the Padre bore, + And the thirsty soil drank the precious store + Of sacramental and holy wine, + That emblem and consecrated sign + And blessed symbol of blood divine. + + Then, says the legend (and they who doubt + The same as heretics be accurst), + From the dry and feverish soil leaped out + A living fountain; a well-spring burst + Over the dusty and broad champaign, + Over the sandy and sterile plain, + Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones + That lay in the valley--the scattered bones-- + Moved in the river and lived again! + + Such was the wonderful miracle + Wrought by the cup of wine that fell + From the hands of the pious Padre Serro, + The very reverend Junipero. + + + + +THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN + + Of all the fountains that poets sing,-- + Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring, + Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth, + Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth,-- + In short, of all the springs of Time + That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, + That ever were tasted, felt, or seen, + There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin. + + Anno Domini eighteen-seven, + Father Dominguez (now in heaven,-- + Obiit eighteen twenty-seven) + Found the spring, and found it, too, + By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe; + For his beast--a descendant of Balaam's ass-- + Stopped on the instant, and would not pass. + + The Padre thought the omen good, + And bent his lips to the trickling flood; + Then--as the Chronicles declare, + On the honest faith of a true believer-- + His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare, + Filled like a withered russet pear + In the vacuum of a glass receiver, + And the snows that seventy winters bring + Melted away in that magic spring. + + Such, at least, was the wondrous news + The Padre brought into Santa Cruz. + The Church, of course, had its own views + Of who were worthiest to use + The magic spring; but the prior claim + Fell to the aged, sick, and lame. + Far and wide the people came: + Some from the healthful Aptos Creek + Hastened to bring their helpless sick; + Even the fishers of rude Soquel + Suddenly found they were far from well; + The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo + Said, in fact, they had never been so; + And all were ailing,--strange to say,-- + From Pescadero to Monterey. + + Over the mountain they poured in, + With leathern bottles and bags of skin; + Through the canyons a motley throng + Trotted, hobbled, and limped along. + The Fathers gazed at the moving scene + With pious joy and with souls serene; + And then--a result perhaps foreseen-- + They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin. + + Not in the eyes of faith alone + The good effects of the water shone; + But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, + Of rough vaquero and muleteer; + Angular forms were rounded out, + Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout; + And as for the girls,--for miles about + They had no equal! To this day, + From Pescadero to Monterey, + You'll still find eyes in which are seen + The liquid graces of San Joaquin. + + There is a limit to human bliss, + And the Mission of San Joaquin had this; + None went abroad to roam or stay + But they fell sick in the queerest way,-- + A singular maladie du pays, + With gastric symptoms: so they spent + Their days in a sensuous content, + Caring little for things unseen + Beyond their bowers of living green, + Beyond the mountains that lay between + The world and the Mission of San Joaquin. + + Winter passed, and the summer came + The trunks of madrono, all aflame, + Here and there through the underwood + Like pillars of fire starkly stood. + All of the breezy solitude + Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay + And resinous odors mixed and blended; + And dim and ghostlike, far away, + The smoke of the burning woods ascended. + Then of a sudden the mountains swam, + The rivers piled their floods in a dam, + The ridge above Los Gatos Creek + Arched its spine in a feline fashion; + The forests waltzed till they grew sick, + And Nature shook in a speechless passion; + And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen, + The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin + Vanished, and never more was seen! + + Two days passed: the Mission folk + Out of their rosy dream awoke; + Some of them looked a trifle white, + But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright. + Three days: there was sore distress, + Headache, nausea, giddiness. + Four days: faintings, tenderness + Of the mouth and fauces; and in less + Than one week--here the story closes; + We won't continue the prognosis-- + Enough that now no trace is seen + Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin. + + MORAL + + You see the point? Don't be too quick + To break bad habits: better stick, + Like the Mission folk, to your ARSENIC. + + + + +THE ANGELUS + + (HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868) + + Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music + Still fills the wide expanse, + Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present + With color of romance! + + I hear your call, and see the sun descending + On rock and wave and sand, + As down the coast the Mission voices, blending, + Girdle the heathen land. + + Within the circle of your incantation + No blight nor mildew falls; + Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition + Passes those airy walls. + + Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, + I touch the farther Past; + I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, + The sunset dream and last! + + Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers, + The white Presidio; + The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, + The priest in stole of snow. + + Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting + Above the setting sun; + And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting, + The freighted galleon. + + O solemn bells! whose consecrated masses + Recall the faith of old; + O tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight music + The spiritual fold! + + Your voices break and falter in the darkness,-- + Break, falter, and are still; + And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending, + The sun sinks from the hill! + + + + +CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO + + (PRESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO, 1800) + + I + + Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and + quaint, + By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint,-- + + Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed, + On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel's golden reed; + + All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed away; + And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day. + + Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering eye, + Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by; + + Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of gold + With the plain and homespun present, and a love that ne'er grows old; + + Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner dust,-- + Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and trust. + + II + + Count von Resanoff, the Russian, envoy of the mighty Czar, + Stood beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are. + + He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene debate + On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state; + + He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk apart + With the Commandante's daughter on the questions of the heart, + + Until points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one, + And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun; + + Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, + He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar; + + Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothed bade adieu, + And from sallyport and gateway north the Russian eagles flew. + + III + + Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, + Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of the Czar; + + Day by day on wall and bastion beat the hollow, empty breeze,-- + Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling seas: + + Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty leather cloaks,-- + Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing plain of oaks; + + Till the rains came, and far breaking, on the fierce southwester tost, + Dashed the whole long coast with color, and then vanished and were + lost. + + So each year the seasons shifted,--wet and warm and drear and dry + Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and sky. + + Still it brought no ship nor message,--brought no tidings, ill or meet, + For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair and sweet. + + Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears beside: + "He will come," the flowers whispered; "Come no more," the dry hills + sighed. + + Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning breeze,-- + Still she lost him with the folding of the great white-tented seas; + + Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive brown, + And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet lashes down; + + Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied caress, + And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress. + + Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are, + Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from afar; + + Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each + As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech: + + "'Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he;' + 'Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree;' + + "'He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall have flies;' + 'In the end God grinds the miller;' 'In the dark the mole has eyes;' + + "'He whose father is Alcalde of his trial hath no fear,'-- + And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his conduct clear." + + Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it would teach + Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech; + + And on "Concha" "Conchitita," and "Conchita" he would dwell + With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well. + + So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt, + Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and went out. + + IV + + Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately cavalcade, + Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid; + + Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport, + Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court. + + Vainly then at Concha's lattice, vainly as the idle wind, + Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth too kind; + + Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and fleet, + Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their mustang's feet; + + So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay serapes blazed,-- + Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had + raised. + + Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, with patient + mien, + The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull routine,-- + + Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone, + Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary monotone. + + V + + Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze, + Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas; + + Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure decay, + And St. George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey; + + And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gayly drest, + All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveler and guest. + + Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set, + And exchanged congratulations with the English baronet; + + Till, the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine, + Some one spoke of Concha's lover,--heedless of the warning sign. + + Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson: "Speak no ill of him, I pray! + He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day,-- + + "Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse. + Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course! + + "Lives she yet?" A deathlike silence fell on banquet, guests, and + hall, + And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of all. + + Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the nun's white hood; + Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood. + + "Lives she yet?" Sir George repeated. All were hushed as Concha drew + Closer yet her nun's attire. "Senor, pardon, she died, too!" + + + + +"FOR THE KING" + + (NORTHERN MEXICO, 1640) + + As you look from the plaza at Leon west + You can see her house, but the view is best + From the porch of the church where she lies at rest; + + Where much of her past still lives, I think, + In the scowling brows and sidelong blink + Of the worshiping throng that rise or sink + + To the waxen saints that, yellow and lank, + Lean out from their niches, rank on rank, + With a bloodless Saviour on either flank; + + In the gouty pillars, whose cracks begin + To show the adobe core within,-- + A soul of earth in a whitewashed skin. + + And I think that the moral of all, you'll say, + Is the sculptured legend that moulds away + On a tomb in the choir: "Por el Rey." + + "Por el Rey!" Well, the king is gone + Ages ago, and the Hapsburg one + Shot--but the Rock of the Church lives on. + + "Por el Rey!" What matters, indeed, + If king or president succeed + To a country haggard with sloth and greed, + + As long as one granary is fat, + And yonder priest, in a shovel hat, + Peeps out from the bin like a sleek brown rat? + + What matters? Naught, if it serves to bring + The legend nearer,--no other thing,-- + We'll spare the moral, "Live the king!" + + Two hundred years ago, they say, + The Viceroy, Marquis of Monte-Rey, + Rode with his retinue that way: + + Grave, as befitted Spain's grandee; + Grave, as the substitute should be + Of His Most Catholic Majesty; + + Yet, from his black plume's curving grace + To his slim black gauntlet's smaller space, + Exquisite as a piece of lace! + + Two hundred years ago--e'en so-- + The Marquis stopped where the lime-trees blow, + While Leon's seneschal bent him low, + + And begged that the Marquis would that night take + His humble roof for the royal sake, + And then, as the custom demanded, spake + + The usual wish, that his guest would hold + The house, and all that it might enfold, + As his--with the bride scarce three days old. + + Be sure that the Marquis, in his place, + Replied to all with the measured grace + Of chosen speech and unmoved face; + + Nor raised his head till his black plume swept + The hem of the lady's robe, who kept + Her place, as her husband backward stept. + + And then (I know not how nor why) + A subtle flame in the lady's eye-- + Unseen by the courtiers standing by-- + + Burned through his lace and titled wreath, + Burned through his body's jeweled sheath, + Till it touched the steel of the man beneath! + + (And yet, mayhap, no more was meant + Than to point a well-worn compliment, + And the lady's beauty, her worst intent.) + + Howbeit, the Marquis bowed again: + "Who rules with awe well serveth Spain, + But best whose law is love made plain." + + Be sure that night no pillow prest + The seneschal, but with the rest + Watched, as was due a royal guest,-- + + Watched from the wall till he saw the square + Fill with the moonlight, white and bare,-- + Watched till he saw two shadows fare + + Out from his garden, where the shade + That the old church tower and belfry made + Like a benedictory hand was laid. + + Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned + To his nearest sentry: "These monks have learned + That stolen fruit is sweetly earned. + + "Myself shall punish yon acolyte + Who gathers my garden grapes by night; + Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light." + + 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." + + Then I passed it to Nye, + Who repassed it to me. + And we bandaged each eye + Of that Billson--ez we + Softly dropped that coin in his coat pocket, ez the hull crowd + around us could see. + + That was all. He'd one hand + Locked in mine. Then he groped. + We could not understand + Why that minit Nye sloped, + For we knew we'd the dead thing on Billson--even more than we + dreamed of or hoped. + + For he stood thar in doubt + With his hand to his head; + Then he turned, and lit out + Through the door where Nye fled, + Draggin' me and the rest of us arter, while we larfed till we + thought we was dead, + + Till he overtook Nye + And went through him. Words fail + For what follers! Kin I + Paint our agonized wail + Ez he drew from Nye's pocket that twenty wot we sworn was in his own + coat-tail! + + And it WAS! But, when found, + It proved bogus and brass! + And the question goes round + How the thing kem to pass? + Or, if PASSED, woz it passed thar by William; and I listens, and + echoes "Alas! + + "For the days when the skill + Of the keerds was no blind, + When no effort of will + Could beat four of a kind, + When the thing wot you held in your hand, Pard, was worth more than + the thing in your mind." + + + + +THE SPELLING BEE AT ANGELS + + (REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES) + + Waltz in, waltz in, ye little kids, and gather round my knee, + And drop them books and first pot-hooks, and hear a yarn from me. + I kin not sling a fairy tale of Jinnys* fierce and wild, + For I hold it is unchristian to deceive a simple child; + But as from school yer driftin' by, I thowt ye'd like to hear + Of a "Spelling Bee" at Angels that we organized last year. + + It warn't made up of gentle kids, of pretty kids, like you, + But gents ez hed their reg'lar growth, and some enough for two. + There woz Lanky Jim of Sutter's Fork and Bilson of Lagrange, + And "Pistol Bob," who wore that day a knife by way of change. + You start, you little kids, you think these are not pretty names, + But each had a man behind it, and--my name is Truthful James. + + There was Poker Dick from Whisky Flat, and Smith of Shooter's Bend, + And Brown of Calaveras--which I want no better friend; + Three-fingered Jack--yes, pretty dears, three fingers--YOU have five. + Clapp cut off two--it's sing'lar, too, that Clapp ain't now alive. + 'Twas very wrong indeed, my dears, and Clapp was much to blame; + Likewise was Jack, in after-years, for shootin' of that same. + + The nights was kinder lengthenin' out, the rains had jest begun, + When all the camp came up to Pete's to have their usual fun; + But we all sot kinder sad-like around the bar-room stove + Till Smith got up, permiskiss-like, and this remark he hove: + "Thar's a new game down in Frisco, that ez far ez I can see + Beats euchre, poker, and van-toon, they calls the 'Spellin' Bee.'" + + Then Brown of Calaveras simply hitched his chair and spake, + "Poker is good enough for me," and Lanky Jim sez, "Shake!" + And Bob allowed he warn't proud, but he "must say right thar + That the man who tackled euchre hed his education squar." + This brought up Lenny Fairchild, the schoolmaster, who said + He knew the game, and he would give instructions on that head. + + "For instance, take some simple word," sez he, "like 'separate:' + Now who can spell it?" Dog my skin, ef thar was one in eight. + This set the boys all wild at once. The chairs was put in row, + And at the head was Lanky Jim, and at the foot was Joe, + And high upon the bar itself the schoolmaster was raised, + And the bar-keep put his glasses down, and sat and silent gazed. + + The first word out was "parallel," and seven let it be, + Till Joe waltzed in his "double l" betwixt the "a" and "e;" + For since he drilled them Mexicans in San Jacinto's fight + Thar warn't no prouder man got up than Pistol Joe that night-- + Till "rhythm" came! He tried to smile, then said "they had him + there," + And Lanky Jim, with one long stride, got up and took his chair. + + O little kids, my pretty kids, 'twas touchin' to survey + These bearded men, with weppings on, like schoolboys at their play. + They'd laugh with glee, and shout to see each other lead the van, + And Bob sat up as monitor with a cue for a rattan, + Till the Chair gave out "incinerate," and Brown said he'd be durned + If any such blamed word as that in school was ever learned. + + When "phthisis" came they all sprang up, and vowed the man who rung + Another blamed Greek word on them be taken out and hung. + As they sat down again I saw in Bilson's eye a flash, + And Brown of Calaveras was a-twistin' his mustache, + And when at last Brown slipped on "gneiss," and Bilson took his chair, + He dropped some casual words about some folks who dyed their hair. + + And then the Chair grew very white, and the Chair said he'd adjourn, + But Poker Dick remarked that HE would wait and get his turn; + Then with a tremblin' voice and hand, and with a wanderin' eye, + The Chair next offered "eider-duck," and Dick began with "I", + And Bilson smiled--then Bilson shrieked! Just how the fight begun + I never knowed, for Bilson dropped, and Dick, he moved up one. + + Then certain gents arose and said "they'd business down in camp," + And "ez the road was rather dark, and ez the night was damp, + They'd"--here got up Three-fingered Jack and locked the door and + yelled: + "No, not one mother's son goes out till that thar word is spelled!" + But while the words were on his lips, he groaned and sank in pain, + And sank with Webster on his chest and Worcester on his brain. + + Below the bar dodged Poker Dick, and tried to look ez he + Was huntin' up authorities thet no one else could see; + And Brown got down behind the stove, allowin' he "was cold," + Till it upsot and down his legs the cinders freely rolled, + And several gents called "Order!" till in his simple way + Poor Smith began with "O-r"--"Or"--and he was dragged away. + + O little kids, my pretty kids, down on your knees and pray! + You've got your eddication in a peaceful sort of way; + And bear in mind thar may be sharps ez slings their spellin' square, + But likewise slings their bowie-knives without a thought or care. + You wants to know the rest, my dears? Thet's all! In me you see + The only gent that lived to tell about the Spellin' Bee! + + ------ + + He ceased and passed, that truthful man; the children went their way + With downcast heads and downcast hearts--but not to sport or play. + For when at eve the lamps were lit, and supperless to bed + Each child was sent, with tasks undone and lessons all unsaid, + No man might know the awful woe that thrilled their youthful frames, + As they dreamed of Angels Spelling Bee and thought of Truthful James. + + + * Qy. Genii. + + + + +ARTEMIS IN SIERRA + + + DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + Poet. Philosopher. Jones of Mariposa. + + + POET + + Halt! Here we are. Now wheel your mare a trifle + Just where you stand; then doff your hat and swear + Never yet was scene you might cover with your rifle + Half as complete or as marvelously fair. + + PHILOSOPHER + + Dropped from Olympus or lifted out of Tempe, + Swung like a censer betwixt the earth and sky! + He who in Greece sang of flocks and flax and hemp,--he + Here might recall them--six thousand feet on high! + + POET + + Well you may say so. The clamor of the river, + Hum of base toil, and man's ignoble strife, + Halt far below, where the stifling sunbeams quiver, + But never climb to this purer, higher life! + + Not to this glade, where Jones of Mariposa, + Simple and meek as his flocks we're looking at, + Tends his soft charge; nor where his daughter Rosa-- + (A shot.) + Hallo! What's that? + + PHILOSOPHER + + A--something thro' my hat-- + Bullet, I think. You were speaking of his daughter? + + POET + + Yes; but--your hat you were moving through the leaves; + Likely he thought it some eagle bent on slaughter. + Lightly he shoots-- (A second shot.) + + PHILOSOPHER + + As one readily perceives. + Still, he improves! This time YOUR hat has got it, + Quite near the band! Eh? Oh, just as you please-- + Stop, or go on. + + POET + + Perhaps we'd better trot it + Down through the hollow, and up among the trees. + + BOTH + + Trot, trot, trot, where the bullets cannot follow; + Trot down and up again among the laurel trees. + + PHILOSOPHER + + Thanks, that is better; now of this shot-dispensing + Jones and his girl--you were saying-- + + POET + + Well, you see-- + I--hang it all!--Oh! what's the use of fencing! + Sir, I confess it!--these shots were meant for ME. + + PHILOSOPHER + + Are you mad! + + POET + + God knows, I shouldn't wonder! + I love this coy nymph, who, coldly--as yon peak + Shines on the river it feeds, yet keeps asunder-- + Long have I worshiped, but never dared to speak. + + Till she, no doubt, her love no longer hiding, + Waked by some chance word her father's jealousy; + Slips her disdain--as an avalanche down gliding + Sweeps flocks and kin away--to clear a path for ME. + + Hence his attack. + + PHILOSOPHER + + I see. What I admire + Chiefly, I think, in your idyl, so to speak, + Is the cool modesty that checks your youthful fire,-- + Absence of self-love and abstinence of cheek! + + Still, I might mention, I've met the gentle Rosa,-- + Danced with her thrice, to her father's jealous dread; + And, it is possible, she's happened to disclose a-- + Ahem! You can fancy why he shoots at ME instead. + + POET + + YOU? + + PHILOSOPHER + + Me. But kindly take your hand from your revolver, + I am not choleric--but accidents may chance. + And here's the father, who alone can be the solver + Of this twin riddle of the hat and the romance. + + Enter JONES OF MARIPOSA. + + POET + + Speak, shepherd--mine! + + PHILOSOPHER + + Hail! Time-and-cartridge waster, + Aimless exploder of theories and skill! + Whom do you shoot? + + JONES OF MARIPOSA + + Well, shootin' ain't my taste, or + EF I shoot anything--I only shoot to kill. + + That ain't what's up. I only kem to tell ye-- + Sportin' or courtin'--trot homeward for your life! + Gals will be gals, and p'r'aps it's just ez well ye + Larned there was one had no wish to be--a wife. + + POET + + What? + + PHILOSOPHER + + Is this true? + + JONES OF MARIPOSA + + I reckon it looks like it. + She saw ye comin'. My gun was standin' by; + She made a grab, and 'fore I up could strike it, + Blazed at ye both! The critter is SO shy! + + POET + + Who? + + JONES OF MARIPOSA + + My darter! + + PHILOSOPHER + + Rosa? + + JONES OF MARIPOSA + + Same! Good-by! + + + + +JACK OF THE TULES + + (SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA) + + Shrewdly you question, Senor, and I fancy + You are no novice. Confess that to little + Of my poor gossip of Mission and Pueblo + You are a stranger! + + Am I not right? Ah! believe me, that ever + Since we joined company at the posada + I've watched you closely, and--pardon an old priest-- + I've caught you smiling! + + Smiling to hear an old fellow like me talk + Gossip of pillage and robbers, and even + Air his opinion of law and alcaldes + Like any other! + + Now!--by that twist of the wrist on the bridle, + By that straight line from the heel to the shoulder, + By that curt speech,--nay! nay! no offense, son,-- + You are a soldier? + + No? Then a man of affairs? San Sebastian! + 'Twould serve me right if I prattled thus wildly + To--say a sheriff? No?--just caballero? + Well, more's the pity. + + Ah! what we want here's a man of your presence; + Sano, Secreto,--yes, all the four S's, + Joined with a boldness and dash, when the time comes, + And--may I say it?-- + + One not TOO hard on the poor country people, + Peons and silly vaqueros, who, dazzled + By reckless skill, and, perchance, reckless largesse, + Wink at some queer things. + + No? You would crush THEM as well as the robbers,-- + Root them out, scatter them? Ah you are bitter-- + And yet--quien sabe, perhaps that's the one way + To catch their leader. + + As to myself, now, I'd share your displeasure; + For I admit in this Jack of the Tules + Certain good points. He still comes to confession-- + You'd "like to catch him"? + + Ah, if you did at such times, you might lead him + Home by a thread. Good! Again you are smiling: + You have no faith in such shrift, and but little + In priest or penitent. + + Bueno! We take no offense, sir; whatever + It please you to say, it becomes us, for Church sake, + To bear in peace. Yet, if you were kinder-- + And less suspicious-- + + I might still prove to you, Jack of the Tules + Shames not our teaching; nay, even might show you, + Hard by this spot, his old comrade, who, wounded, + Lives on his bounty. + + If--ah, you listen!--I see I can trust you; + Then, on your word as a gentleman--follow. + Under that sycamore stands the old cabin; + There sits his comrade. + + Eh!--are you mad? You would try to ARREST him? + You, with a warrant? Oh, well, take the rest of them: + Pedro, Bill, Murray, Pat Doolan. Hey!--all of you, + Tumble out, d--n it! + + There!--that'll do, boys! Stand back! Ease his elbows; + Take the gag from his mouth. Good! Now scatter like devils + After his posse--four straggling, four drunken-- + At the posada. + + You--help me off with these togs, and then vamos! + Now, ole Jeff Dobbs!--Sheriff, Scout, and Detective! + You're so derned 'cute! Kinder sick, ain't ye, bluffing + Jack of the Tules! + + + + + +IV. MISCELLANEOUS + + + + +A GREYPORT LEGEND + + (1797) + + They ran through the streets of the seaport town, + They peered from the decks of the ships that lay; + The cold sea-fog that came whitening down + Was never as cold or white as they. + "Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden! + Run for your shallops, gather your men, + Scatter your boats on the lower bay." + + Good cause for fear! In the thick mid-day + The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, + Filled with the children in happy play, + Parted its moorings and drifted clear, + Drifted clear beyond reach or call,-- + Thirteen children they were in all,-- + All adrift in the lower bay! + + Said a hard-faced skipper, "God help us all! + She will not float till the turning tide!" + Said his wife, "My darling will hear MY call, + Whether in sea or heaven she bide;" + And she lifted a quavering voice and high, + Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry, + Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. + + The fog drove down on each laboring crew, + Veiled each from each and the sky and shore: + There was not a sound but the breath they drew, + And the lap of water and creak of oar; + And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown + O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone, + But not from the lips that had gone before. + + They came no more. But they tell the tale + That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef, + The mackerel fishers shorten sail-- + For the signal they know will bring relief; + For the voices of children, still at play + In a phantom hulk that drifts alway + Through channels whose waters never fail. + + It is but a foolish shipman's tale, + A theme for a poet's idle page; + But still, when the mists of Doubt prevail, + And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age, + We hear from the misty troubled shore + The voice of the children gone before, + Drawing the soul to its anchorage. + + + + +A NEWPORT ROMANCE + + They say that she died of a broken heart + (I tell the tale as 'twas told to me); + But her spirit lives, and her soul is part + Of this sad old house by the sea. + + Her lover was fickle and fine and French: + It was nearly a hundred years ago + When he sailed away from her arms--poor wench!-- + With the Admiral Rochambeau. + + I marvel much what periwigged phrase + Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker, + At what gold-laced speech of those modish days + She listened--the mischief take her! + + But she kept the posies of mignonette + That he gave; and ever as their bloom failed + And faded (though with her tears still wet) + Her youth with their own exhaled. + + Till one night, when the sea-fog wrapped a shroud + Round spar and spire and tarn and tree, + Her soul went up on that lifted cloud + From this sad old house by the sea. + + And ever since then, when the clock strikes two, + She walks unbidden from room to room, + And the air is filled that she passes through + With a subtle, sad perfume. + + The delicate odor of mignonette, + The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet, + Is all that tells of her story; yet + Could she think of a sweeter way? + + + I sit in the sad old house to-night,-- + Myself a ghost from a farther sea; + And I trust that this Quaker woman might, + In courtesy, visit me. + + For the laugh is fled from porch and lawn, + And the bugle died from the fort on the hill, + And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone, + And the grand piano is still. + + Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two: + And there is no sound in the sad old house, + But the long veranda dripping with dew, + And in the wainscot a mouse. + + The light of my study-lamp streams out + From the library door, but has gone astray + In the depths of the darkened hall. Small doubt + But the Quakeress knows the way. + + Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought + With outward watching and inward fret? + But I swear that the air just now was fraught + With the odor of mignonette! + + I open the window, and seem almost-- + So still lies the ocean--to hear the beat + Of its Great Gulf artery off the coast, + And to bask in its tropic heat. + + In my neighbor's windows the gas-lights flare, + As the dancers swing in a waltz of Strauss; + And I wonder now could I fit that air + To the song of this sad old house. + + And no odor of mignonette there is, + But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn; + And mayhap from causes as slight as this + The quaint old legend is born. + + But the soul of that subtle, sad perfume, + As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast + The mummy laid in his rocky tomb, + Awakens my buried past. + + And I think of the passion that shook my youth, + Of its aimless loves and its idle pains, + And am thankful now for the certain truth + That only the sweet remains. + + And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade, + And I see no face at my library door; + For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, + She is viewless for evermore. + + But whether she came as a faint perfume, + Or whether a spirit in stole of white, + I feel, as I pass from the darkened room, + She has been with my soul to-night! + + + + +SAN FRANCISCO + + (FROM THE SEA) + + Serene, indifferent of Fate, + Thou sittest at the Western Gate; + + Upon thy height, so lately won, + Still slant the banners of the sun; + + Thou seest the white seas strike their tents, + O Warder of two continents! + + And, scornful of the peace that flies + Thy angry winds and sullen skies, + + Thou drawest all things, small, or great, + To thee, beside the Western Gate. + + O lion's whelp, that hidest fast + In jungle growth of spire and mast! + + I know thy cunning and thy greed, + Thy hard high lust and willful deed, + + And all thy glory loves to tell + Of specious gifts material. + + Drop down, O Fleecy Fog, and hide + Her skeptic sneer and all her pride! + + Wrap her, O Fog, in gown and hood + Of her Franciscan Brotherhood. + + Hide me her faults, her sin and blame; + With thy gray mantle cloak her shame! + + So shall she, cowled, sit and pray + Till morning bears her sins away. + + Then rise, O Fleecy Fog, and raise + The glory of her coming days; + + Be as the cloud that flecks the seas + Above her smoky argosies; + + When forms familiar shall give place + To stranger speech and newer face; + + When all her throes and anxious fears + Lie hushed in the repose of years; + + When Art shall raise and Culture lift + The sensual joys and meaner thrift, + + And all fulfilled the vision we + Who watch and wait shall never see; + + Who, in the morning of her race, + Toiled fair or meanly in our place, + + But, yielding to the common lot, + Lie unrecorded and forgot. + + + + +THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE + + By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting, + By furrowed glade and dell, + To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, + Thou stayest them to tell + + The delicate thought that cannot find expression, + For ruder speech too fair, + That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, + And scatters on the air. + + The miner pauses in his rugged labor, + And, leaning on his spade, + Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor + To see thy charms displayed. + + But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises, + And for a moment clear + Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises, + And passes in a tear,-- + + Some boyish vision of his Eastern village, + Of uneventful toil, + Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage + Above a peaceful soil. + + One moment only; for the pick, uplifting, + Through root and fibre cleaves, + And on the muddy current slowly drifting + Are swept by bruised leaves. + + And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion, + Thy work thou dost fulfill, + For on the turbid current of his passion + Thy face is shining still! + + + + +GRIZZLY. + + Coward,--of heroic size, + In whose lazy muscles lies + Strength we fear and yet despise; + Savage,--whose relentless tusks + Are content with acorn husks; + Robber,--whose exploits ne'er soared + O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard; + Whiskered chin and feeble nose, + Claws of steel on baby toes,-- + Here, in solitude and shade, + Shambling, shuffling plantigrade, + Be thy courses undismayed! + + Here, where Nature makes thy bed, + Let thy rude, half-human tread + Point to hidden Indian springs, + Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses, + Hovered o'er by timid wings, + Where the wood-duck lightly passes, + Where the wild bee holds her sweets,-- + Epicurean retreats, + Fit for thee, and better than + Fearful spoils of dangerous man. + In thy fat-jowled deviltry + Friar Tuck shall live in thee; + Thou mayst levy tithe and dole; + Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer, + From the pilgrim taking toll; + Match thy cunning with his fear; + Eat, and drink, and have thy fill; + Yet remain an outlaw still! + + + + +MADRONO + + Captain of the Western wood, + Thou that apest Robin Hood! + Green above thy scarlet hose, + How thy velvet mantle shows! + Never tree like thee arrayed, + O thou gallant of the glade! + + When the fervid August sun + Scorches all it looks upon, + And the balsam of the pine + Drips from stem to needle fine, + Round thy compact shade arranged, + Not a leaf of thee is changed! + + When the yellow autumn sun + Saddens all it looks upon, + Spreads its sackcloth on the hills, + Strews its ashes in the rills, + Thou thy scarlet hose dost doff, + And in limbs of purest buff + Challengest the sombre glade + For a sylvan masquerade. + + Where, oh, where, shall he begin + Who would paint thee, Harlequin? + With thy waxen burnished leaf, + With thy branches' red relief, + With thy polytinted fruit,-- + In thy spring or autumn suit,-- + Where begin, and oh, where end, + Thou whose charms all art transcend? + + + + +COYOTE + + Blown out of the prairie in twilight and dew, + Half bold and half timid, yet lazy all through; + Loath ever to leave, and yet fearful to stay, + He limps in the clearing, an outcast in gray. + + A shade on the stubble, a ghost by the wall, + Now leaping, now limping, now risking a fall, + Lop-eared and large-jointed, but ever alway + A thoroughly vagabond outcast in gray. + + Here, Carlo, old fellow,--he's one of your kind,-- + Go, seek him, and bring him in out of the wind. + What! snarling, my Carlo! So even dogs may + Deny their own kin in the outcast in gray. + + Well, take what you will,--though it be on the sly, + Marauding or begging,--I shall not ask why, + But will call it a dole, just to help on his way + A four-footed friar in orders of gray! + + + + +TO A SEA-BIRD + + (SANTA CRUZ, 1869) + + Sauntering hither on listless wings, + Careless vagabond of the sea, + Little thou heedest the surf that sings, + The bar that thunders, the shale that rings,-- + Give me to keep thy company. + + Little thou hast, old friend, that's new; + Storms and wrecks are old things to thee; + Sick am I of these changes, too; + Little to care for, little to rue,-- + I on the shore, and thou on the sea. + + All of thy wanderings, far and near, + Bring thee at last to shore and me; + All of my journeyings end them here: + This our tether must be our cheer,-- + I on the shore, and thou on the sea. + + Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, + Something in common, old friend, have we: + Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest, + I to the waters look for rest,-- + I on the shore, and thou on the sea. + + + + +WHAT THE CHIMNEY SANG + + Over the chimney the night-wind sang + And chanted a melody no one knew; + And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed, + And thought of the one she had long since lost, + And said, as her teardrops back she forced, + "I hate the wind in the chimney." + + Over the chimney the night-wind sang + And chanted a melody no one knew; + And the Children said, as they closer drew, + "'Tis some witch that is cleaving the black night through, + 'Tis a fairy trumpet that just then blew, + And we fear the wind in the chimney." + + Over the chimney the night-wind sang + And chanted a melody no one knew; + And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below, + Said to himself, "It will surely snow, + And fuel is dear and wages low, + And I'll stop the leak in the chimney." + + Over the chimney the night-wind sang + And chanted a melody no one knew; + But the Poet listened and smiled, for he + Was Man and Woman and Child, all three, + And said, "It is God's own harmony, + This wind we hear in the chimney." + + + + +DICKENS IN CAMP + + Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, + The river sang below; + The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting + Their minarets of snow. + + The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted + The ruddy tints of health + On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted + In the fierce race for wealth; + + Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure + A hoarded volume drew, + And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure + To hear the tale anew. + + And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, + And as the firelight fell, + He read aloud the book wherein the Master + Had writ of "Little Nell." + + Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,--for the reader + Was youngest of them all,-- + But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar + A silence seemed to fall; + + The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, + Listened in every spray, + While the whole camp with "Nell" on English meadows + Wandered and lost their way. + + And so in mountain solitudes--o'ertaken + As by some spell divine-- + Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken + From out the gusty pine. + + Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire; + And he who wrought that spell? + Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, + Ye have one tale to tell! + + Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story + Blend with the breath that thrills + With hop-vine's incense all the pensive glory + That fills the Kentish hills. + + And on that grave where English oak and holly + And laurel wreaths entwine, + Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, + This spray of Western pine! + + July, 1870. + + + + +"TWENTY YEARS" + + Beg your pardon, old fellow! I think + I was dreaming just now when you spoke. + The fact is, the musical clink + Of the ice on your wine-goblet's brink + A chord of my memory woke. + + And I stood in the pasture-field where + Twenty summers ago I had stood; + And I heard in that sound, I declare, + The clinking of bells in the air, + Of the cows coming home from the wood. + + Then the apple-bloom shook on the hill; + And the mullein-stalks tilted each lance; + And the sun behind Rapalye's mill + Was my uttermost West, and could thrill + Like some fanciful land of romance. + + Then my friend was a hero, and then + My girl was an angel. In fine, + I drank buttermilk; for at ten + Faith asks less to aid her than when + At thirty we doubt over wine. + + Ah, well, it DOES seem that I must + Have been dreaming just now when you spoke, + Or lost, very like, in the dust + Of the years that slow fashioned the crust + On that bottle whose seal you last broke. + + Twenty years was its age, did you say? + Twenty years? Ah, my friend, it is true! + All the dreams that have flown since that day, + All the hopes in that time passed away, + Old friend, I've been drinking with you! + + + + +FATE + + "The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, + The spray of the tempest is white in air; + The winds are out with the waves at play, + And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. + + "The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, + The panther clings to the arching limb; + And the lion's whelps are abroad at play, + And I shall not join in the chase to-day." + + But the ship sailed safely over the sea, + And the hunters came from the chase in glee; + And the town that was builded upon a rock + Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock. + + + + +GRANDMOTHER TENTERDEN + + (MASSACHUSETTS SHORE, 1800) + + I mind it was but yesterday: + The sun was dim, the air was chill; + Below the town, below the hill, + The sails of my son's ship did fill,-- + My Jacob, who was cast away. + + He said, "God keep you, mother dear," + But did not turn to kiss his wife; + They had some foolish, idle strife; + Her tongue was like a two-edged knife, + And he was proud as any peer. + + Howbeit that night I took no note + Of sea nor sky, for all was drear; + I marked not that the hills looked near, + Nor that the moon, though curved and clear, + Through curd-like scud did drive and float. + + For with my darling went the joy + Of autumn woods and meadows brown; + I came to hate the little town; + It seemed as if the sun went down + With him, my only darling boy. + + It was the middle of the night: + The wind, it shifted west-by-south,-- + It piled high up the harbor mouth; + The marshes, black with summer drouth, + Were all abroad with sea-foam white. + + It was the middle of the night: + The sea upon the garden leapt, + And my son's wife in quiet slept, + And I, his mother, waked and wept, + When lo! there came a sudden light. + + And there he stood! His seaman's dress + All wet and dripping seemed to be; + The pale blue fires of the sea + Dripped from his garments constantly,-- + I could not speak through cowardness. + + "I come through night and storm," he said. + "Through storm and night and death," said he, + "To kiss my wife, if it so be + That strife still holds 'twixt her and me, + For all beyond is peace," he said. + + "The sea is His, and He who sent + The wind and wave can soothe their strife + And brief and foolish is our life." + He stooped and kissed his sleeping wife, + Then sighed, and like a dream he went. + + Now, when my darling kissed not me, + But her--his wife--who did not wake, + My heart within me seemed to break; + I swore a vow, nor thenceforth spake + Of what my clearer eyes did see. + + And when the slow weeks brought him not, + Somehow we spake of aught beside: + For she--her hope upheld her pride; + And I--in me all hope had died, + And my son passed as if forgot. + + It was about the next springtide: + She pined and faded where she stood, + Yet spake no word of ill or good; + She had the hard, cold Edwards' blood + In all her veins--and so she died. + + One time I thought, before she passed, + To give her peace; but ere I spake + Methought, "HE will be first to break + The news in heaven," and for his sake + I held mine back until the last. + + And here I sit, nor care to roam; + I only wait to hear his call. + I doubt not that this day next fall + Shall see me safe in port, where all + And every ship at last comes home. + + And you have sailed the Spanish Main, + And knew my Jacob?... Eh! Mercy! + Ah! God of wisdom! hath the sea + Yielded its dead to humble me? + My boy!... My Jacob!... Turn again! + + + + +GUILD'S SIGNAL + + + [William Guild was engineer of the train which on the 19th of April, + 1813, plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the Stonington and + Providence Railroad. It was his custom, as often as he passed his + home, to whistle an "All's well" to his wife. He was found, after + the disaster, dead, with his hand on the throttle-valve of his + engine.] + + + Two low whistles, quaint and clear: + That was the signal the engineer-- + That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said-- + Gave to his wife at Providence, + As through the sleeping town, and thence, + Out in the night, + On to the light, + Down past the farms, lying white, he sped! + + As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, + Yet to the woman looking out, + Watching and waiting, no serenade, + Love-song, or midnight roundelay + Said what that whistle seemed to say: + "To my trust true, + So, love, to you! + Working or waiting, good-night!" it said. + + Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, + Old commuters along the line, + Brakemen and porters glanced ahead, + Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, + Pierced through the shadows of Providence: + "Nothing amiss-- + Nothing!--it is + Only Guild calling his wife," they said. + + Summer and winter the old refrain + Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, + Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead, + Flew down the track when the red leaves burned + Like living coals from the engine spurned; + Sang as it flew, + "To our trust true, + First of all, duty. Good-night!" it said. + + And then, one night, it was heard no more + From Stonington over Rhode Island shore, + And the folk in Providence smiled and said + As they turned in their beds, "The engineer + Has once forgotten his midnight cheer." + ONE only knew, + To his trust true, + Guild lay under his engine, dead. + + + + +ASPIRING MISS DE LAINE + + (A CHEMICAL NARRATIVE) + + Certain facts which serve to explain + The physical charms of Miss Addie De Laine, + Who, as the common reports obtain, + Surpassed in complexion the lily and rose; + With a very sweet mouth and a retrousse nose; + A figure like Hebe's, or that which revolves + In a milliner's window, and partially solves + That question which mentor and moralist pains, + If grace may exist minus feeling or brains. + + Of course the young lady had beaux by the score, + All that she wanted,--what girl could ask more? + Lovers that sighed and lovers that swore, + Lovers that danced and lovers that played, + Men of profession, of leisure, and trade; + But one, who was destined to take the high part + Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart,-- + This lover, the wonder and envy of town, + Was a practicing chemist, a fellow called Brown. + + I might here remark that 'twas doubted by many, + In regard to the heart, if Miss Addie had any; + But no one could look in that eloquent face, + With its exquisite outline and features of grace, + And mark, through the transparent skin, how the tide + Ebbed and flowed at the impulse of passion or pride,-- + None could look, who believed in the blood's circulation + As argued by Harvey, but saw confirmation + That here, at least, Nature had triumphed o'er art, + And as far as complexion went she had a heart. + + But this par parenthesis. Brown was the man + Preferred of all others to carry her fan, + Hook her glove, drape her shawl, and do all that a belle + May demand of the lover she wants to treat well. + Folks wondered and stared that a fellow called Brown-- + Abstracted and solemn, in manner a clown, + Ill dressed, with a lingering smell of the shop-- + Should appear as her escort at party or hop. + Some swore he had cooked up some villainous charm, + Or love philter, not in the regular Pharm- + Acopoeia, and thus, from pure malice prepense, + Had bewitched and bamboozled the young lady's sense; + Others thought, with more reason, the secret to lie + In a magical wash or indelible dye; + While Society, with its censorious eye + And judgment impartial, stood ready to damn + What wasn't improper as being a sham. + + For a fortnight the townfolk had all been agog + With a party, the finest the season had seen, + To be given in honor of Miss Pollywog, + Who was just coming out as a belle of sixteen. + The guests were invited; but one night before + A carriage drew up at the modest back door + Of Brown's lab'ratory, and, full in the glare + Of a big purple bottle, some closely veiled fair + Alighted and entered: to make matters plain, + Spite of veils and disguises, 'twas Addie De Laine. + + As a bower for true love, 'twas hardly the one + That a lady would choose to be wooed in or won: + No odor of rose or sweet jessamine's sigh + Breathed a fragrance to hallow their pledge of troth by, + Nor the balm that exhales from the odorous thyme; + But the gaseous effusions of chloride of lime, + And salts, which your chemist delights to explain + As the base of the smell of the rose and the drain. + Think of this, O ye lovers of sweetness! and know + What you smell when you snuff up Lubin or Pinaud. + + I pass by the greetings, the transports and bliss, + Which of course duly followed a meeting like this, + And come down to business,--for such the intent + Of the lady who now o'er the crucible leant, + In the glow of a furnace of carbon and lime, + Like a fairy called up in the new pantomime,-- + And give but her words, as she coyly looked down + In reply to the questioning glances of Brown: + "I am taking the drops, and am using the paste, + And the little white powders that had a sweet taste, + Which you told me would brighten the glance of my eye, + And the depilatory, and also the dye, + And I'm charmed with the trial; and now, my dear Brown, + I have one other favor,--now, ducky, don't frown,-- + Only one, for a chemist and genius like you + But a trifle, and one you can easily do. + Now listen: to-morrow, you know, is the night + Of the birthday soiree of that Pollywog fright; + And I'm to be there, and the dress I shall wear + Is TOO lovely; but"-- "But what then, ma chere?" + Said Brown, as the lady came to a full stop, + And glanced round the shelves of the little back shop. + "Well, I want--I want something to fill out the skirt + To the proper dimensions, without being girt + In a stiff crinoline, or caged in a hoop + That shows through one's skirt like the bars of a coop; + Something light, that a lady may waltz in, or polk, + With a freedom that none but you masculine folk + Ever know. For, however poor woman aspires, + She's always bound down to the earth by these wires. + Are you listening? Nonsense! don't stare like a spoon, + Idiotic; some light thing, and spacious, and soon-- + Something like--well, in fact--something like a balloon!" + + Here she paused; and here Brown, overcome by surprise, + Gave a doubting assent with still wondering eyes, + And the lady departed. But just at the door + Something happened,--'tis true, it had happened before + In this sanctum of science,--a sibilant sound, + Like some element just from its trammels unbound, + Or two substances that their affinities found. + + The night of the anxiously looked for soiree + Had come, with its fair ones in gorgeous array; + With the rattle of wheels and the tinkle of bells, + And the "How do ye do's" and the "Hope you are well's;" + And the crush in the passage, and last lingering look + You give as you hang your best hat on the hook; + The rush of hot air as the door opens wide; + And your entry,--that blending of self-possessed pride + And humility shown in your perfect-bred stare + At the folk, as if wondering how they got there; + With other tricks worthy of Vanity Fair. + Meanwhile, the safe topic, the beat of the room, + Already was losing its freshness and bloom; + Young people were yawning, and wondering when + The dance would come off; and why didn't it then: + When a vague expectation was thrilling the crowd, + Lo! the door swung its hinges with utterance proud! + And Pompey announced, with a trumpet-like strain, + The entrance of Brown and Miss Addie De Laine. + + She entered; but oh! how imperfect the verb + To express to the senses her movement superb! + To say that she "sailed in" more clearly might tell + Her grace in its buoyant and billowy swell. + Her robe was a vague circumambient space, + With shadowy boundaries made of point-lace; + The rest was but guesswork, and well might defy + The power of critical feminine eye + To define or describe: 'twere as futile to try + The gossamer web of the cirrus to trace, + Floating far in the blue of a warm summer sky. + + 'Midst the humming of praises and glances of beaux + That greet our fair maiden wherever she goes, + Brown slipped like a shadow, grim, silent, and black, + With a look of anxiety, close in her track. + Once he whispered aside in her delicate ear + A sentence of warning,--it might be of fear: + "Don't stand in a draught, if you value your life." + (Nothing more,--such advice might be given your wife + Or your sweetheart, in times of bronchitis and cough, + Without mystery, romance, or frivolous scoff.) + But hark to the music; the dance has begun. + The closely draped windows wide open are flung; + The notes of the piccolo, joyous and light, + Like bubbles burst forth on the warm summer night. + Round about go the dancers; in circles they fly; + Trip, trip, go their feet as their skirts eddy by; + And swifter and lighter, but somewhat too plain, + Whisks the fair circumvolving Miss Addie De Laine. + Taglioni and Cerito well might have pined + For the vigor and ease that her movements combined; + E'en Rigelboche never flung higher her robe + In the naughtiest city that's known on the globe. + 'Twas amazing, 'twas scandalous; lost in surprise, + Some opened their mouths, and a few shut their eyes. + + But hark! At the moment Miss Addie De Laine, + Circling round at the outer edge of an ellipse + Which brought her fair form to the window again, + From the arms of her partner incautiously slips! + And a shriek fills the air, and the music is still, + And the crowd gather round where her partner forlorn + Still frenziedly points from the wide window-sill + Into space and the night; for Miss Addie was gone! + Gone like the bubble that bursts in the sun; + Gone like the grain when the reaper is done; + Gone like the dew on the fresh morning grass; + Gone without parting farewell; and alas! + Gone with a flavor of hydrogen gas! + + When the weather is pleasant, you frequently meet + A white-headed man slowly pacing the street; + His trembling hand shading his lack-lustre eye, + Half blind with continually scanning the sky. + Rumor points him as some astronomical sage, + Re-perusing by day the celestial page; + But the reader, sagacious, will recognize Brown, + Trying vainly to conjure his lost sweetheart down, + And learn the stern moral this story must teach, + That Genius may lift its love out of its reach. + + + + +A LEGEND OF COLOGNE + + Above the bones + St. Ursula owns, + And those of the virgins she chaperons; + Above the boats, + And the bridge that floats, + And the Rhine and the steamers' smoky throats; + Above the chimneys and quaint-tiled roofs, + Above the clatter of wheels and hoofs; + Above Newmarket's open space, + Above that consecrated place + Where the genuine bones of the Magi seen are, + And the dozen shops of the real Farina; + Higher than even old Hohestrasse, + Whose houses threaten the timid passer,-- + Above them all, + Through scaffolds tall, + And spires like delicate limbs in splinters, + The great Cologne's + Cathedral stones + Climb through the storms of eight hundred winters. + + Unfinished there, + In high mid-air + The towers halt like a broken prayer; + Through years belated, + Unconsummated, + The hope of its architect quite frustrated. + Its very youth + They say, forsooth, + With a quite improper purpose mated; + And every stone + With a curse of its own + Instead of that sermon Shakespeare stated, + Since the day its choir, + Which all admire, + By Cologne's Archbishop was consecrated. + + Ah! THAT was a day, + One well might say, + To be marked with the largest, whitest stone + To be found in the towers of all Cologne! + Along the Rhine, + From old Rheinstein, + The people flowed like their own good wine. + From Rudesheim, + And Geisenheim, + And every spot that is known to rhyme; + From the famed Cat's Castle of St. Goarshausen, + To the pictured roofs of Assmannshausen, + And down the track, + From quaint Schwalbach + To the clustering tiles of Bacharach; + From Bingen, hence + To old Coblentz: + From every castellated crag, + Where the robber chieftains kept their "swag," + The folk flowed in, and Ober-Cassel + Shone with the pomp of knight and vassal; + And pouring in from near and far, + As the Rhine to its bosom draws the Ahr, + Or takes the arm of the sober Mosel, + So in Cologne, knight, squire, and losel, + Choked up the city's gates with men + From old St. Stephen to Zint Marjen. + + What had they come to see? Ah me! + I fear no glitter of pageantry, + Nor sacred zeal + For Church's weal, + Nor faith in the virgins' bones to heal; + Nor childlike trust in frank confession + Drew these, who, dyed in deep transgression, + Still in each nest + On every crest + Kept stolen goods in their possession; + But only their gout + For something new, + More rare than the "roast" of a wandering Jew; + Or--to be exact-- + To see--in fact-- + A Christian soul, in the very act + Of being damned, secundum artem, + By the devil, before a soul could part 'em. + + For a rumor had flown + Throughout Cologne + That the church, in fact, was the devil's own; + That its architect + (Being long "suspect") + Had confessed to the Bishop that he had wrecked + Not only his OWN soul, but had lost + The VERY FIRST CHRISTIAN SOUL that crossed + The sacred threshold: and all, in fine, + For that very beautiful design + Of the wonderful choir + They were pleased to admire. + And really, he must be allowed to say-- + To speak in a purely business way-- + That, taking the ruling market prices + Of souls and churches, in such a crisis + It would be shown-- + And his Grace must own-- + It was really a BARGAIN for Cologne! + + Such was the tale + That turned cheeks pale + With the thought that the enemy might prevail, + And the church doors snap + With a thunderclap + On a Christian soul in that devil's trap. + But a wiser few, + Who thought that they knew + Cologne's Archbishop, replied, "Pooh, pooh! + Just watch him and wait, + And as sure as fate, + You'll find that the Bishop will give checkmate." + + One here might note + How the popular vote, + As shown in all legends and anecdote, + Declares that a breach + Of trust to o'erreach + The devil is something quite proper for each. + And, really, if you + Give the devil his due + In spite of the proverb--it's something you'll rue. + But to lie and deceive him, + To use and to leave him, + From Job up to Faust is the way to receive him, + Though no one has heard + It ever averred + That the "Father of Lies" ever yet broke HIS word, + But has left this position, + In every tradition, + To be taken alone by the "truth-loving" Christian! + Bom! from the tower! + It is the hour! + The host pours in, in its pomp and power + Of banners and pyx, + And high crucifix, + And crosiers and other processional sticks, + And no end of Marys + In quaint reliquaries, + To gladden the souls of all true antiquaries; + And an Osculum Pacis + (A myth to the masses + Who trusted their bones more to mail and cuirasses)-- + All borne by the throng + Who are marching along + To the square of the Dom with processional song, + With the flaring of dips, + And bending of hips, + And the chanting of hundred perfunctory lips; + And some good little boys + Who had come up from Neuss + And the Quirinuskirche to show off their voice: + All march to the square + Of the great Dom, and there + File right and left, leaving alone and quite bare + A covered sedan, + Containing--so ran + The rumor--the victim to take off the ban. + + They have left it alone, + They have sprinkled each stone + Of the porch with a sanctified Eau de Cologne, + Guaranteed in this case + To disguise every trace + Of a sulphurous presence in that sacred place. + Two Carmelites stand + On the right and left hand + Of the covered sedan chair, to wait the command + Of the prelate to throw + Up the cover and show + The form of the victim in terror below. + There's a pause and a prayer, + Then the signal, and there-- + Is a WOMAN!--by all that is good and is fair! + + A woman! and known + To them all--one must own + TOO WELL KNOWN to the many, to-day to be shown + As a martyr, or e'en + As a Christian! A queen + Of pleasance and revel, of glitter and sheen; + So bad that the worst + Of Cologne spake up first, + And declared 'twas an outrage to suffer one curst, + And already a fief + Of the Satanic chief, + To martyr herself for the Church's relief. + But in vain fell their sneer + On the mob, who I fear + On the whole felt a strong disposition to cheer. + + A woman! and there + She stands in the glare + Of the pitiless sun and their pitying stare,-- + A woman still young, + With garments that clung + To a figure, though wasted with passion and wrung + With remorse and despair, + Yet still passing fair, + With jewels and gold in her dark shining hair, + And cheeks that are faint + 'Neath her dyes and her paint. + A woman most surely--but hardly a saint! + + She moves. She has gone + From their pity and scorn; + She has mounted alone + The first step of stone, + And the high swinging doors she wide open has thrown, + Then pauses and turns, + As the altar blaze burns + On her cheeks, and with one sudden gesture she spurns + Archbishop and Prior, + Knight, ladye, and friar, + And her voice rings out high from the vault of the choir. + + "O men of Cologne! + What I WAS ye have known; + What I AM, as I stand here, One knoweth alone. + If it be but His will + I shall pass from Him still, + Lost, curst, and degraded, I reckon no ill; + If still by that sign + Of His anger divine + One soul shall be saved, He hath blessed more than mine. + O men of Cologne! + Stand forth, if ye own + A faith like to this, or more fit to atone, + And take ye my place, + And God give you grace + To stand and confront Him, like me, face to face!" + + She paused. Yet aloof + They all stand. No reproof + Breaks the silence that fills the celestial roof. + One instant--no more-- + She halts at the door, + Then enters!... A flood from the roof to the floor + Fills the church rosy red. + She is gone! + But instead, + Who is this leaning forward with glorified head + And hands stretched to save? + Sure this is no slave + Of the Powers of Darkness, with aspect so brave! + + They press to the door, + But too late! All is o'er. + Naught remains but a woman's form prone on the floor; + But they still see a trace + Of that glow in her face + That they saw in the light of the altar's high blaze + On the image that stands + With the babe in its hands + Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands. + + A Te Deum sung, + A censer high swung, + With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung, + Proclaim that the CURSE + IS REMOVED--and no worse + Is the Dom for the trial--in fact, the REVERSE; + For instead of their losing + A soul in abusing + The Evil One's faith, they gained one of his choosing. + + Thus the legend is told: + You will find in the old + Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold + In iron and brass, + In gown and cuirass, + The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Mass; + And high o'er the rest, + With her babe at her breast, + The image of Mary Madonna the blest. + But you look round in vain, + On each high pictured pane, + For the woman most worthy to walk in her train. + + Yet, standing to-day + O'er the dust and the clay, + 'Midst the ghosts of a life that has long passed away, + With the slow-sinking sun + Looking softly upon + That stained-glass procession, I scarce miss the one + That it does not reveal, + For I know and I feel + That these are but shadows--the woman was real! + + + + +THE TALE OF A PONY + + Name of my heroine, simply "Rose;" + Surname, tolerable only in prose; + Habitat, Paris,--that is where + She resided for change of air; + Aetat twenty; complexion fair; + Rich, good looking, and debonnaire; + Smarter than Jersey lightning. There! + That's her photograph, done with care. + + In Paris, whatever they do besides, + EVERY LADY IN FULL DRESS RIDES! + Moire antiques you never meet + Sweeping the filth of a dirty street + But every woman's claim to ton + Depends upon + The team she drives, whether phaeton, + Landau, or britzka. Hence it's plain + That Rose, who was of her toilet vain, + Should have a team that ought to be + Equal to any in all Paris! + + "Bring forth the horse!" The commissaire + Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair + Leading an equipage rich and rare. + Why doth that lovely lady stare? + Why? The tail of the off gray mare + Is bobbed, by all that's good and fair! + Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear, + Scarcely showing as much back hair + As Tam O'Shanter's "Meg,"--and there, + Lord knows, she'd little enough to spare. + + That stare and frown the Frenchman knew, + But did as well-bred Frenchmen do: + Raised his shoulders above his crown, + Joined his thumbs with the fingers down, + And said, "Ah, Heaven!"--then, "Mademoiselle, + Delay one minute, and all is well!" + He went--returned; by what good chance + These things are managed so well in France + I cannot say, but he made the sale, + And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail. + + All that is false in this world below + Betrays itself in a love of show; + Indignant Nature hides her lash + In the purple-black of a dyed mustache; + The shallowest fop will trip in French, + The would-be critic will misquote Trench; + In short, you're always sure to detect + A sham in the things folks most affect; + Bean-pods are noisiest when dry, + And you always wink with your weakest eye: + And that's the reason the old gray mare + Forever had her tail in the air, + With flourishes beyond compare, + Though every whisk + Incurred the risk + Of leaving that sensitive region bare. + She did some things that you couldn't but feel + She wouldn't have done had her tail been real. + + Champs Elysees: time, past five. + There go the carriages,--look alive! + Everything that man can drive, + Or his inventive skill contrive,-- + Yankee buggy or English "chay," + Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coupe, + A desobligeante quite bulky + (French idea of a Yankee sulky); + Band in the distance playing a march, + Footman standing stiff as starch; + Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch- + Bishops, and there together range + Sous-lieutenants and cent-gardes (strange + Way these soldier-chaps make change), + Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames, + With unpronounceable awful names; + Laces tremble and ribbons flout, + Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout-- + Bless us! what is the row about? + Ah! here comes Rosy's new turnout! + Smart! You bet your life 'twas that! + Nifty! (short for magnificat). + Mulberry panels,--heraldic spread,-- + Ebony wheels picked out with red, + And two gray mares that were thoroughbred: + No wonder that every dandy's head + Was turned by the turnout,--and 'twas said + That Caskowhisky (friend of the Czar), + A very good whip (as Russians are), + Was tied to Rosy's triumphal car, + Entranced, the reader will understand, + By "ribbons" that graced her head and hand. + + Alas! the hour you think would crown + Your highest wishes should let you down! + Or Fate should turn, by your own mischance, + Your victor's car to an ambulance, + From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance! + (And these things happen, even in France.) + And so Miss Rose, as she trotted by, + The cynosure of every eye, + Saw to her horror the off mare shy, + Flourish her tail so exceedingly high + That, disregarding the closest tie, + And without giving a reason why, + She flung that tail so free and frisky + Off in the face of Caskowhisky. + + Excuses, blushes, smiles: in fine, + End of the pony's tail, and mine! + + + + +ON A CONE OF THE BIG TREES + + (SEQUOIA GIGANTEA) + + Brown foundling of the Western wood, + Babe of primeval wildernesses! + Long on my table thou hast stood + Encounters strange and rude caresses; + Perchance contented with thy lot, + Surroundings new, and curious faces, + As though ten centuries were not + Imprisoned in thy shining cases. + + Thou bring'st me back the halcyon days + Of grateful rest, the week of leisure, + The journey lapped in autumn haze, + The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure, + The morning ride, the noonday halt, + The blazing slopes, the red dust rising, + And then the dim, brown, columned vault, + With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing. + + Once more I see the rocking masts + That scrape the sky, their only tenant + The jay-bird, that in frolic casts + From some high yard his broad blue pennant. + I see the Indian files that keep + Their places in the dusty heather, + Their red trunks standing ankle-deep + In moccasins of rusty leather. + + I see all this, and marvel much + That thou, sweet woodland waif, art able + To keep the company of such + As throng thy friend's--the poet's--table: + The latest spawn the press hath cast,-- + The "modern popes," "the later Byrons,"-- + Why, e'en the best may not outlast + Thy poor relation--Sempervirens. + + Thy sire saw the light that shone + On Mohammed's uplifted crescent, + On many a royal gilded throne + And deed forgotten in the present; + He saw the age of sacred trees + And Druid groves and mystic larches; + And saw from forest domes like these + The builder bring his Gothic arches. + + And must thou, foundling, still forego + Thy heritage and high ambition, + To lie full lowly and full low, + Adjusted to thy new condition? + Not hidden in the drifted snows, + But under ink-drops idly spattered, + And leaves ephemeral as those + That on thy woodland tomb were scattered? + + Yet lie thou there, O friend! and speak + The moral of thy simple story: + Though life is all that thou dost seek, + And age alone thy crown of glory, + Not thine the only germs that fail + The purpose of their high creation, + If their poor tenements avail + For worldly show and ostentation. + + + + +LONE MOUNTAIN + + (CEMETERY, SAN FRANCISCO) + + This is that hill of awe + That Persian Sindbad saw,-- + The mount magnetic; + And on its seaward face, + Scattered along its base, + The wrecks prophetic. + + Here come the argosies + Blown by each idle breeze, + To and fro shifting; + Yet to the hill of Fate + All drawing, soon or late,-- + Day by day drifting; + + Drifting forever here + Barks that for many a year + Braved wind and weather; + Shallops but yesterday + Launched on yon shining bay,-- + Drawn all together. + + This is the end of all: + Sun thyself by the wall, + O poorer Hindbad! + Envy not Sindbad's fame: + Here come alike the same + Hindbad and Sindbad. + + + + +ALNASCHAR + + Here's yer toy balloons! All sizes! + Twenty cents for that. It rises + Jest as quick as that 'ere, Miss, + Twice as big. Ye see it is + Some more fancy. Make it square + Fifty for 'em both. That's fair. + + That's the sixth I've sold since noon. + Trade's reviving. Just as soon + As this lot's worked off, I'll take + Wholesale figgers. Make or break,-- + That's my motto! Then I'll buy + In some first-class lottery + One half ticket, numbered right-- + As I dreamed about last night. + + That'll fetch it. Don't tell me! + When a man's in luck, you see, + All things help him. Every chance + Hits him like an avalanche. + Here's your toy balloons, Miss. Eh? + You won't turn your face this way? + Mebbe you'll be glad some day. + With that clear ten thousand prize + This 'yer trade I'll drop, and rise + Into wholesale. No! I'll take + Stocks in Wall Street. Make or break,-- + That's my motto! With my luck, + Where's the chance of being stuck? + Call it sixty thousand, clear, + Made in Wall Street in one year. + + Sixty thousand! Umph! Let's see! + Bond and mortgage'll do for me. + Good! That gal that passed me by + Scornful like--why, mebbe I + Some day'll hold in pawn--why not?-- + All her father's prop. She'll spot + What's my little game, and see + What I'm after's HER. He! he! + + He! he! When she comes to sue-- + Let's see! What's the thing to do? + Kick her? No! There's the perliss! + Sorter throw her off like this. + Hello! Stop! Help! Murder! Hey! + There's my whole stock got away, + Kiting on the house-tops! Lost! + All a poor man's fortin! Cost? + Twenty dollars! Eh! What's this? + Fifty cents! God bless ye, Miss! + + + + +THE TWO SHIPS + + As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest, + Looking over the ultimate sea, + In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest, + And one sails away from the lea: + One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track, + With pennant and sheet flowing free; + One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,-- + The ship that is waiting for me! + + But lo! in the distance the clouds break away, + The Gate's glowing portals I see; + And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay + The song of the sailors in glee. + So I think of the luminous footprints that bore + The comfort o'er dark Galilee, + And wait for the signal to go to the shore, + To the ship that is waiting for me. + + + + +ADDRESS + + (OPENING OF THE CALIFORNIA THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JANUARY 19, 1870) + + Brief words, when actions wait, are well: + The prompter's hand is on his bell; + The coming heroes, lovers, kings, + Are idly lounging at the wings; + Behind the curtain's mystic fold + The glowing future lies unrolled; + And yet, one moment for the Past, + One retrospect,--the first and last. + + "The world's a stage," the Master said. + To-night a mightier truth is read: + Not in the shifting canvas screen, + The flash of gas or tinsel sheen; + Not in the skill whose signal calls + From empty boards baronial halls; + But, fronting sea and curving bay, + Behold the players and the play. + + Ah, friends! beneath your real skies + The actor's short-lived triumph dies: + On that broad stage of empire won, + Whose footlights were the setting sun, + Whose flats a distant background rose + In trackless peaks of endless snows; + Here genius bows, and talent waits + To copy that but One creates. + + Your shifting scenes: the league of sand, + An avenue by ocean spanned; + The narrow beach of straggling tents, + A mile of stately monuments; + Your standard, lo! a flag unfurled, + Whose clinging folds clasp half the world,-- + This is your drama, built on facts, + With "twenty years between the acts." + + One moment more: if here we raise + The oft-sung hymn of local praise, + Before the curtain facts must sway; + HERE waits the moral of your play. + Glassed in the poet's thought, you view + What money can, yet cannot do; + The faith that soars, the deeds that shine, + Above the gold that builds the shrine. + + And oh! when others take our place, + And Earth's green curtain hides our face, + Ere on the stage, so silent now, + The last new hero makes his bow: + So may our deeds, recalled once more + In Memory's sweet but brief encore, + Down all the circling ages run, + With the world's plaudit of "Well done!" + + + + +DOLLY VARDEN + + Dear Dolly! who does not recall + The thrilling page that pictured all + Those charms that held our sense in thrall + Just as the artist caught her,-- + As down that English lane she tripped, + In bowered chintz, hat sideways tipped, + Trim-bodiced, bright-eyed, roguish-lipped,-- + The locksmith's pretty daughter? + + Sweet fragment of the Master's art! + O simple faith! O rustic heart! + O maid that hath no counterpart + In life's dry, dog-eared pages! + Where shall we find thy like? Ah, stay! + Methinks I saw her yesterday + In chintz that flowered, as one might say, + Perennial for ages. + + Her father's modest cot was stone, + Five stories high; in style and tone + Composite, and, I frankly own, + Within its walls revealing + Some certain novel, strange ideas: + A Gothic door with Roman piers, + And floors removed some thousand years, + From their Pompeian ceiling. + + The small salon where she received + Was Louis Quatorze, and relieved + By Chinese cabinets, conceived + Grotesquely by the heathen; + The sofas were a classic sight,-- + The Roman bench (sedilia hight); + The chairs were French in gold and white, + And one Elizabethan. + + And she, the goddess of that shrine, + Two ringed fingers placed in mine,-- + The stones were many carats fine, + And of the purest water,-- + Then dropped a curtsy, far enough + To fairly fill her cretonne puff + And show the petticoat's rich stuff + That her fond parent bought her. + + Her speech was simple as her dress,-- + Not French the more, but English less, + She loved; yet sometimes, I confess, + I scarce could comprehend her. + Her manners were quite far from shy. + There was a quiet in her eye + Appalling to the Hugh who'd try + With rudeness to offend her. + + "But whence," I cried, "this masquerade? + Some figure for to-night's charade, + A Watteau shepherdess or maid?" + She smiled and begged my pardon: + "Why, surely you must know the name,-- + That woman who was Shakespeare's flame + Or Byron's,--well, it's all the same: + Why, Lord! I'm Dolly Varden!" + + + + +TELEMACHUS VERSUS MENTOR + + Don't mind me, I beg you, old fellow,--I'll do very well here alone; + You must not be kept from your "German" because I've dropped in like + a stone. + Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught but + yourself; + And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on the shelf. + + As for me, you will say to your hostess--well, I scarcely need give + you a cue. + Chant my praise! All will list to Apollo, though Mercury pipe to a + few. + Say just what you please, my dear boy; there's more eloquence lies + in youth's rash + Outspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this grizzling + mustache. + + Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant,--youth's panoplied armor for + fight,-- + And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and lasts + but a night; + And pray the Nine Gods to avert you what time the Three Sisters + shall frown, + And you'll lose your high-comedy figure, and sit more at ease in + your gown. + + He's off! There's his foot on the staircase. By Jove, what a bound! + Really now + Did I ever leap like this springald, with Love's chaplet green on my + brow? + Was I such an ass? No, I fancy. Indeed, I remember quite plain + A gravity mixed with my transports, a cheerfulness softened my pain. + + He's gone! There's the slam of his cab door, there's the clatter + of hoofs and the wheels; + And while he the light toe is tripping, in this armchair I'll tilt + up my heels. + He's gone, and for what? For a tremor from a waist like a teetotum + spun; + For a rosebud that's crumpled by many before it is gathered by one. + + Is there naught in the halo of youth but the glow of a passionate + race--'Midst the cheers and applause of a crowd--to the goal of a + beautiful face? + A race that is not to the swift, a prize that no merits enforce, + But is won by some faineant youth, who shall simply walk over the + course? + + Poor boy! shall I shock his conceit? When he talks of her cheek's + loveliness, + Shall I say 'twas the air of the room, and was due to carbonic excess? + That when waltzing she drooped on his breast, and the veins of her + eyelids grew dim, + 'Twas oxygen's absence she felt, but never the presence of him? + + Shall I tell him first love is a fraud, a weakling that's strangled + in birth, + Recalled with perfunctory tears, but lost in unsanctified mirth? + Or shall I go bid him believe in all womankind's charm, and forget + In the light ringing laugh of the world the rattlesnake's gay + castanet? + + Shall I tear out a leaf from my heart, from that book that forever + is shut + On the past? Shall I speak of my first love--Augusta--my Lalage? + But + I forget. Was it really Augusta? No. 'Twas Lucy! No. Mary! + No. Di! + Never mind! they were all first and faithless, and yet--I've forgotten + just why. + + No, no! Let him dream on and ever. Alas! he will waken too soon; + And it doesn't look well for October to always be preaching at June. + Poor boy! All his fond foolish trophies pinned yonder--a bow from + HER hair, + A few billets-doux, invitations, and--what's this? My name, I + declare! + + Humph! "You'll come, for I've got you a prize, with beauty and money + no end: + You know her, I think; 'twas on dit she once was engaged to your + friend; + But she says that's all over." Ah, is it? Sweet Ethel! incomparable + maid! + Or--what if the thing were a trick?--this letter so freely displayed!-- + + My opportune presence! No! nonsense! Will nobody answer the bell? + Call a cab! Half past ten. Not too late yet. Oh, Ethel! Why don't + you go? Well? + "Master said you would wait"-- Hang your master! "Have I ever a + message to send?" + Yes, tell him I've gone to the German to dance with the friend of + his friend. + + + + +WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD + + Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair, + Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare? + "Why are my eyelids so open and wild?" + Only the better to see with, my child! + Only the better and clearer to view + Cheeks that are rosy and eyes that are blue. + + Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms + Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms, + Swaying so wickedly? Are they misplaced + Clasping or shielding some delicate waist? + Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear + Only the better protect you, my dear! + + Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street, + Why do I press your small hand when we meet? + Why, when you timidly offered your cheek, + Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak? + Why, well: you see--if the truth must appear-- + I'm not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear! + + + + +HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER + + "So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you met on the train, + And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her + again?" + + "Of course," he replied, "she would know me; there never was + womankind yet + Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not forget." + + "Then you told her your love?" asked the elder. The younger looked + up with a smile: + "I sat by her side half an hour--what else was I doing the while? + + "What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky, + And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from your own to + her eye? + + "No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and as bold as + the look, + And I held up herself to herself,--that was more than she got from + her book." + + "Young blood!" laughed the elder; "no doubt you are voicing the mode + of To-Day: + But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance for delay. + + "There's my wife (you must know),--we first met on the journey from + Florence to Rome: + It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where was her home; + + "Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw her again; + And a year ere my romance BEGAN where yours ended that day on the + train." + + "Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day by + express; + Forty miles to the hour," he answered, "won't admit of a passion + that's less." + + "But what if you make a mistake?" quoth the elder. The younger half + sighed. + "What happens when signals are wrong or switches misplaced?" he + replied. + + "Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned, "but + submit + Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has bettered no whit. + + "Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I try your ideal + With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regle and real? + + "Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist--you shall follow-- + this way. + My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to stay? + + "My wife, Mr. Rapid-- Eh, what! Why, he's gone--yet he said he + would come. + How rude! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly crimson and + dumb!" + + + + +WHAT THE BULLET SANG + + O joy of creation + To be! + O rapture to fly + And be free! + Be the battle lost or won, + Though its smoke shall hide the sun, + I shall find my love,--the one + Born for me! + + I shall know him where he stands, + All alone, + With the power in his hands + Not o'erthrown; + I shall know him by his face, + By his godlike front and grace; + I shall hold him for a space, + All my own! + + It is he--O my love! + So bold! + It is I--all thy love + Foretold! + It is I. O love! what bliss! + Dost thou answer to my kiss? + O sweetheart! what is this + Lieth there so cold? + + + + +THE OLD CAMP-FIRE + + Now shift the blanket pad before your saddle back you fling, + And draw your cinch up tighter till the sweat drops from the ring: + We've a dozen miles to cover ere we reach the next divide. + Our limbs are stiffer now than when we first set out to ride, + And worse, the horses know it, and feel the leg-grip tire, + Since in the days when, long ago, we sought the old camp-fire. + + Yes, twenty years! Lord! how we'd scent its incense down the trail, + Through balm of bay and spice of spruce, when eye and ear would fail, + And worn and faint from useless quest we crept, like this, to rest, + Or, flushed with luck and youthful hope, we rode, like this, abreast. + Ay! straighten up, old friend, and let the mustang think he's nigher, + Through looser rein and stirrup strain, the welcome old camp-fire. + + You know the shout that would ring out before us down the glade, + And start the blue jays like a flight of arrows through the shade, + And sift the thin pine needles down like slanting, shining rain, + And send the squirrels scampering back to their holes again, + Until we saw, blue-veiled and dim, or leaping like desire, + That flame of twenty years ago, which lit the old camp-fire. + + And then that rest on Nature's breast, when talk had dropped, and slow + The night wind went from tree to tree with challenge soft and low! + We lay on lazy elbows propped, or stood to stir the flame, + Till up the soaring redwood's shaft our shadows danced and came, + As if to draw us with the sparks, high o'er its unseen spire, + To the five stars that kept their ward above the old camp-fire,-- + + Those picket stars whose tranquil watch half soothed, half shamed + our sleep. + What recked we then what beasts or men around might lurk or creep? + We lay and heard with listless ears the far-off panther's cry, + The near coyote's snarling snap, the grizzly's deep-drawn sigh, + The brown bear's blundering human tread, the gray wolves' yelping + choir + Beyond the magic circle drawn around the old camp-fire. + + And then that morn! Was ever morn so filled with all things new? + The light that fell through long brown aisles from out the kindling + blue, + The creak and yawn of stretching boughs, the jay-bird's early call, + The rat-tat-tat of woodpecker that waked the woodland hall, + The fainter stir of lower life in fern and brake and brier, + Till flashing leaped the torch of Day from last night's old camp-fire! + + Well, well! we'll see it once again; we should be near it now; + It's scarce a mile to where the trail strikes off to skirt the slough, + And then the dip to Indian Spring, the wooded rise, and--strange! + Yet here should stand the blasted pine that marked our farther range; + And here--what's this? A ragged swab of ruts and stumps and mire! + Sure this is not the sacred grove that hid the old camp-fire! + + Yet here's the "blaze" I cut myself, and there's the stumbling ledge, + With quartz "outcrop" that lay atop, now leveled to its edge, + And mounds of moss-grown stumps beside the woodman's rotting chips, + And gashes in the hillside, that gape with dumb red lips. + And yet above the shattered wreck and ruin, curling higher-- + Ah yes!--still lifts the smoke that marked the welcome old camp-fire! + + Perhaps some friend of twenty years still lingers there to raise + To weary hearts and tired eyes that beacon of old days. + Perhaps but stay; 'tis gone! and yet once more it lifts as though + To meet our tardy blundering steps, and seems to MOVE, and lo! + Whirls by us in a rush of sound,--the vanished funeral pyre + Of hopes and fears that twenty years burned in the old camp-fire! + + For see, beyond the prospect spreads, with chimney, spire, and roof,-- + Two iron bands across the trail clank to our mustang's hoof; + Above them leap two blackened threads from limb-lopped tree to tree, + To where the whitewashed station speeds its message to the sea. + Rein in! Rein in! The quest is o'er. The goal of our desire + Is but the train whose track has lain across the old camp-fire! + + + + +THE STATION-MASTER OF LONE PRAIRIE + + An empty bench, a sky of grayest etching, + A bare, bleak shed in blackest silhouette, + Twelve years of platform, and before them stretching + Twelve miles of prairie glimmering through the wet. + + North, south, east, west,--the same dull gray persistence, + The tattered vapors of a vanished train, + The narrowing rails that meet to pierce the distance, + Or break the columns of the far-off rain. + + Naught but myself; nor form nor figure breaking + The long hushed level and stark shining waste; + Nothing that moves to fill the vision aching, + When the last shadow fled in sullen haste. + + Nothing beyond. Ah yes! From out the station + A stiff, gaunt figure thrown against the sky, + Beckoning me with some wooden salutation + Caught from his signals as the train flashed by; + + Yielding me place beside him with dumb gesture + Born of that reticence of sky and air. + We sit apart, yet wrapped in that one vesture + Of silence, sadness, and unspoken care: + + Each following his own thought,--around us darkening + The rain-washed boundaries and stretching track,-- + Each following those dim parallels and hearkening + For long-lost voices that will not come back. + + Until, unasked,--I knew not why or wherefore,-- + He yielded, bit by bit, his dreary past, + Like gathered clouds that seemed to thicken there for + Some dull down-dropping of their care at last. + + Long had he lived there. As a boy had started + From the stacked corn the Indian's painted face; + Heard the wolves' howl the wearying waste that parted + His father's hut from the last camping-place. + + Nature had mocked him: thrice had claimed the reaping, + With scythe of fire, of lands she once had sown; + Sent the tornado, round his hearthstone heaping + Rafters, dead faces that were like his own. + + Then came the War Time. When its shadow beckoned + He had walked dumbly where the flag had led + Through swamp and fen,--unknown, unpraised, unreckoned,-- + To famine, fever, and a prison bed. + + Till the storm passed, and the slow tide returning + Cast him, a wreck, beneath his native sky; + Here, at his watch, gave him the chance of earning + Scant means to live--who won the right to die. + + All this I heard--or seemed to hear--half blending + With the low murmur of the coming breeze, + The call of some lost bird, and the unending + And tireless sobbing of those grassy seas. + + Until at last the spell of desolation + Broke with a trembling star and far-off cry. + The coming train! I glanced around the station, + All was as empty as the upper sky! + + Naught but myself; nor form nor figure waking + The long hushed level and stark shining waste; + Naught but myself, that cry, and the dull shaking + Of wheel and axle, stopped in breathless haste! + + "Now, then--look sharp! Eh, what? The Station-Master? + THAR'S NONE! We stopped here of our own accord. + The man got killed in that down-train disaster + This time last evening. Right there! All aboard!" + + + + +THE MISSION BELLS OF MONTEREY + + O bells that rang, O bells that sang + Above the martyrs' wilderness, + Till from that reddened coast-line sprang + The Gospel seed to cheer and bless, + What are your garnered sheaves to-day? + O Mission bells! Eleison bells! + O Mission bells of Monterey! + + O bells that crash, O bells that clash + Above the chimney-crowded plain, + On wall and tower your voices dash, + But never with the old refrain; + In mart and temple gone astray! + Ye dangle bells! Ye jangle bells! + Ye wrangle bells of Monterey! + + O bells that die, so far, so nigh, + Come back once more across the sea; + Not with the zealot's furious cry, + Not with the creed's austerity; + Come with His love alone to stay, + O Mission bells! Eleison bells! + O Mission bells of Monterey! + + + * This poem was set to music by Monsieur Charles Gounod. + + + + +"CROTALUS" + + (RATTLESNAKE BAR, SIERRAS) + + No life in earth, or air, or sky; + The sunbeams, broken silently, + On the bared rocks around me lie,-- + + Cold rocks with half-warmed lichens scarred, + And scales of moss; and scarce a yard + Away, one long strip, yellow-barred. + + Lost in a cleft! 'Tis but a stride + To reach it, thrust its roots aside, + And lift it on thy stick astride! + + Yet stay! That moment is thy grace! + For round thee, thrilling air and space, + A chattering terror fills the place! + + A sound as of dry bones that stir + In the dead Valley! By yon fir + The locust stops its noonday whir! + + The wild bird hears; smote with the sound, + As if by bullet brought to ground, + On broken wing, dips, wheeling round! + + The hare, transfixed, with trembling lip, + Halts, breathless, on pulsating hip, + And palsied tread, and heels that slip. + + Enough, old friend!--'tis thou. Forget + My heedless foot, nor longer fret + The peace with thy grim castanet! + + I know thee! Yes! Thou mayst forego + That lifted crest; the measured blow + Beyond which thy pride scorns to go, + + Or yet retract! For me no spell + Lights those slit orbs, where, some think, dwell + Machicolated fires of hell! + + I only know thee humble, bold, + Haughty, with miseries untold, + And the old Curse that left thee cold, + + And drove thee ever to the sun, + On blistering rocks; nor made thee shun + Our cabin's hearth, when day was done, + + And the spent ashes warmed thee best; + We knew thee,--silent, joyless guest + Of our rude ingle. E'en thy quest + + Of the rare milk-bowl seemed to be + Naught but a brother's poverty, + And Spartan taste that kept thee free + + From lust and rapine. Thou! whose fame + Searchest the grass with tongue of flame, + Making all creatures seem thy game; + + When the whole woods before thee run, + Asked but--when all was said and done-- + To lie, untrodden, in the sun! + + + + +ON WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT + + DEAD AT PITTSFIELD, MASS., 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;-- + + 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 'twas 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? + + "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 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 doesn't say "Cissiter" + 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 contemns + Both "Tames" and Thames--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; + 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 couldn'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-- + Like bold Antaeus--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 child-like 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 fledgelings--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. + + + + +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 couldn'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--'twas 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. + + 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! + + + + +HER LAST LETTER + + BEING A REPLY TO "HIS ANSWER" + + June 4th! Do you know what that date means? + June 4th! By this air and these pines! + Well,--only you know how I hate scenes,-- + These might be my very last lines! + For perhaps, sir, you'll kindly remember-- + If some OTHER things you've forgot-- + That you last wrote the 4th of DECEMBER,-- + Just six months ago I--from this spot; + + From this spot, that you said was "the fairest + For once being held in my thought." + Now, really I call that the barest + Of--well, I won't say what I ought! + For here I am back from my "riches," + My "triumphs," my "tours," and all that; + And YOU'RE not to be found in the ditches + Or temples of Poverty Flat! + + From Paris we went for the season + To London, when pa wired, "Stop." + Mama says "his HEALTH" was the reason. + (I've heard that some things took a "drop.") + But she said if my patience I'd summon + I could go back with him to the Flat-- + Perhaps I was thinking of some one + Who of me--well--was not thinking THAT! + + Of course you will SAY that I "never + Replied to the letter you wrote." + That is just like a man! But, however, + I read it--or how could I quote? + And as to the stories you've heard (No, + Don't tell me you haven't--I know!), + You'll not believe one blessed word, Joe; + But just whence they came, let them go! + + And they came from Sade Lotski of Yolo, + Whose father sold clothes on the Bar-- + You called him Job-lotski, you know, Joe, + And the boys said HER value was par. + Well, we met her in Paris--just flaring + With diamonds, and lost in a hat + And she asked me "how Joseph was faring + In his love-suit on Poverty Flat!" + + She thought it would shame me! I met her + With a look, Joe, that made her eyes drop; + And I said that your "love-suit fared better + Than any suit out of THEIR shop!" + And I didn't blush THEN--as I'm doing + To find myself here, all alone, + And left, Joe, to do all the "sueing" + To a lover that's certainly flown. + + In this brand-new hotel, called "The Lily" + (I wonder who gave it that name?) + I really am feeling quite silly, + To think I was once called the same; + And I stare from its windows, and fancy + I'm labeled to each passer-by. + Ah! gone is the old necromancy, + For nothing seems right to my eye. + + On that hill there are stores that I knew not; + There's a street--where I once lost my way; + And the copse where you once tied my shoe-knot + Is shamelessly open as day! + And that bank by the spring--I once drank there, + And you called the place Eden, you know; + Now I'm banished like Eve--though the bank there + Is belonging to "Adams and Co." + + There's the rustle of silk on the sidewalk; + Just now there passed by a tall hat; + But there's gloom in this "boom" and this wild talk + Of the "future" of Poverty Flat. + There's a decorous chill in the air, Joe, + Where once we were simple and free; + And I hear they've been making a mayor, Joe, + Of the man who shot Sandy McGee. + + But there's still the "lap, lap" of the river; + There's the song of the pines, deep and low. + (How my longing for them made me quiver + In the park that they call Fontainebleau!) + There's the snow-peak that looked on our dances, + And blushed when the morning said, "Go!" + There's a lot that remains which one fancies-- + But somehow there's never a Joe! + + Perhaps, on the whole, it is better, + For you might have been changed like the rest; + Though it's strange that I'm trusting this letter + To papa, just to have it addressed. + He thinks he may find you, and really + Seems kinder now I'm all alone. + You might have been here, Joe, if merely + To LOOK what I'm willing to OWN. + + Well, well! that's all past; so good-night, Joe; + Good-night to the river and Flat; + Good-night to what's wrong and what's right, Joe; + Good-night to the past, and all that-- + To Harrison's barn, and its dancers; + To the moon, and the white peak of snow; + And good-night to the canyon that answers + My "Joe!" with its echo of "No!" + + P. S. + + I've just got your note. You deceiver! + How dared you--how COULD you? Oh, Joe! + To think I've been kept a believer + In things that were six months ago! + And it's YOU'VE built this house, and the bank, too, + And the mills, and the stores, and all that! + And for everything changed I must thank YOU, + Who have "struck it" on Poverty Flat! + + How dared you get rich--you great stupid!-- + Like papa, and some men that I know, + Instead of just trusting to Cupid + And to me for your money? Ah, Joe! + Just to think you sent never a word, dear, + Till you wrote to papa for consent! + Now I know why they had me transferred here, + And "the health of papa"--what THAT meant! + + Now I know why they call this "The Lily;" + Why the man who shot Sandy McGee + You made mayor! 'Twas because--oh, you silly!-- + He once "went down the middle" with me! + I've been fooled to the top of my bent here, + So come, and ask pardon--you know + That you've still got to get MY consent, dear! + And just think what that echo said--Joe! + + + + + +V. PARODIES + + + + +BEFORE THE CURTAIN + + Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize, + A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze + Of flaring gas and curious eyes that gaze. + + The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide, + And hardly fit for royal Richard's stride, + Or Falstaff's bulk, or Denmark's youthful pride. + + Ah, well! no passion walks its humble boards; + O'er it no king nor valiant Hector lords: + The simplest skill is all its space affords. + + The song and jest, the dance and trifling play, + The local hit at follies of the day, + The trick to pass an idle hour away,-- + + For these no trumpets that announce the Moor, + No blast that makes the hero's welcome sure,-- + A single fiddle in the overture! + + + + +TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL* + + (A GEOLOGICAL ADDRESS) + + "Speak, O man, less recent! Fragmentary fossil! + Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, + Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum + Of volcanic tufa! + + "Older than the beasts, the oldest Palaeotherium; + Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami; + Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions + Of earth's epidermis! + + "Eo--Mio--Plio--whatsoe'er the 'cene' was + That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,-- + Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,-- + Tell us thy strange story! + + "Or has the professor slightly antedated + By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, + Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted + For cold-blooded creatures? + + "Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest + When above thy head the stately Sigillaria + Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant + Carboniferous epoch? + + "Tell us of that scene,--the dim and watery woodland, + Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect, + Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club mosses, + Lycopodiacea,-- + + "When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, + And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, + While from time to time above thee flew and circled + Cheerful Pterodactyls. + + "Tell us of thy food,--those half-marine refections, + Crinoids on the shell and Brachipods au naturel,-- + Cuttlefish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo + Seems a periwinkle. + + "Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth's creation, + Solitary fragment of remains organic! + Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence,-- + Speak! thou oldest primate!" + + Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, + And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, + With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, + Ground the teeth together. + + And from that imperfect dental exhibition, + Stained with express juices of the weed nicotian, + Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs + Of expectoration: + + "Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted + Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County; + But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces + Home to old Missouri!" + + + * See notes at end. + + + + +THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE + + (LEGEND OF THE CLIFF HOUSE, SAN FRANCISCO) + + Where the sturdy ocean breeze + Drives the spray of roaring seas, + That the Cliff House balconies + Overlook: + There, in spite of rain that balked, + With his sandals duly chalked, + Once upon a tight-rope walked + Mr. Cooke. + + But the jester's lightsome mien, + And his spangles and his sheen, + All had vanished when the scene + He forsook. + Yet in some delusive hope, + In some vague desire to cope, + ONE still came to view the rope + Walked by Cooke. + + Amid Beauty's bright array, + On that strange eventful day, + Partly hidden from the spray, + In a nook, + Stood Florinda Vere de Vere; + Who, with wind-disheveled hair, + And a rapt, distracted air, + Gazed on Cooke. + + Then she turned, and quickly cried + To her lover at her side, + While her form with love and pride + Wildly shook: + "Clifford Snook! oh, hear me now! + Here I break each plighted vow; + There's but one to whom I bow, + And that's Cooke!" + + Haughtily that young man spoke: + "I descend from noble folk; + 'Seven Oaks,' and then 'Se'nnoak,' + Lastly 'Snook,' + Is the way my name I trace. + Shall a youth of noble race + In affairs of love give place + To a Cooke?" + + "Clifford Snook, I know thy claim + To that lineage and name, + And I think I've read the same + In Horne Tooke; + But I swear, by all divine, + Never, never, to be thine, + Till thou canst upon yon line + Walk like Cooke." + + Though to that gymnastic feat + He no closer might compete + Than to strike a BALANCE-sheet + In a book; + Yet thenceforward from that day + He his figure would display + In some wild athletic way, + After Cooke. + + On some household eminence, + On a clothes-line or a fence, + Over ditches, drains, and thence + O'er a brook, + He, by high ambition led, + Ever walked and balanced, + Till the people, wondering, said, + "How like Cooke!" + + Step by step did he proceed, + Nerved by valor, not by greed, + And at last the crowning deed + Undertook. + Misty was the midnight air, + And the cliff was bleak and bare, + When he came to do and dare, + Just like Cooke. + + Through the darkness, o'er the flow, + Stretched the line where he should go, + Straight across as flies the crow + Or the rook. + One wild glance around he cast; + Then he faced the ocean blast, + And he strode the cable last + Touched by Cooke. + + Vainly roared the angry seas, + Vainly blew the ocean breeze; + But, alas! the walker's knees + Had a crook; + And before he reached the rock + Did they both together knock, + And he stumbled with a shock-- + Unlike Cooke! + + Downward dropping in the dark, + Like an arrow to its mark, + Or a fish-pole when a shark + Bites the hook, + Dropped the pole he could not save, + Dropped the walker, and the wave + Swift engulfed the rival brave + Of J. Cooke! + + Came a roar across the sea + Of sea-lions in their glee, + In a tongue remarkably + Like Chinook; + And the maddened sea-gull seemed + Still to utter, as he screamed, + "Perish thus the wretch who deemed + Himself Cooke!" + + But on misty moonlit nights + Comes a skeleton in tights, + Walks once more the giddy heights + He mistook; + And unseen to mortal eyes, + Purged of grosser earthly ties, + Now at last in spirit guise + Outdoes Cooke. + + Still the sturdy ocean breeze + Sweeps the spray of roaring seas, + Where the Cliff House balconies + Overlook; + And the maidens in their prime, + Reading of this mournful rhyme, + Weep where, in the olden time, + Walked J. Cooke. + + + + +THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU + + Oh, say, have you seen at the Willows so green-- + So charming and rurally true-- + A singular bird, with a manner absurd, + Which they call the Australian Emeu? + Have you + Ever seen this Australian Emeu? + + It trots all around with its head on the ground, + Or erects it quite out of your view; + And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy, + "Oh! what a sweet pretty Emeu! + Oh! do + Just look at that lovely Emeu!" + + One day to this spot, when the weather was hot, + Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue; + And beside her there came a youth of high name,-- + Augustus Florell Montague: + The two + Both loved that wild, foreign Emeu. + + With two loaves of bread then they fed it, instead + Of the flesh of the white Cockatoo, + Which once was its food in that wild neighborhood + Where ranges the sweet Kangaroo, + That too + Is game for the famous Emeu! + + Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whets, + Like the world-famous bark of Peru; + There's nothing so hard that the bird will discard, + And nothing its taste will eschew + That you + Can give that long-legged Emeu! + + The time slipped away in this innocent play, + When up jumped the bold Montague: + "Where's that specimen pin that I gayly did win + In raffle, and gave unto you, + Fortescue?" + No word spoke the guilty Emeu! + + "Quick! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same, + Ere these hands in thy blood I imbrue!" + "Nay, dearest," she cried, as she clung to his side, + "I'm innocent as that Emeu!" + "Adieu!" + He replied, "Miss M. H. Fortescue!" + + Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet, + As wildly he fled from her view; + He thought 'twas her sin,--for he knew not the pin + Had been gobbled up by the Emeu; + All through + The voracity of that Emeu! + + + + +MRS. JUDGE JENKINS + + (BEING THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO "MAUD MULLER") + + Maud Muller all that summer day + Raked the meadow sweet with hay; + + Yet, looking down the distant lane, + She hoped the Judge would come again. + + But when he came, with smile and bow, + Maud only blushed, and stammered, "Ha-ow?" + + And spoke of her "pa," and wondered whether + He'd give consent they should wed together. + + Old Muller burst in tears, and then + Begged that the Judge would lend him "ten;" + + For trade was dull, and wages low, + And the "craps," this year, were somewhat slow. + + And ere the languid summer died, + Sweet Maud became the Judge's bride. + + But on the day that they were mated, + Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated; + + And Maud's relations, twelve in all, + Were very drunk at the Judge's hall. + + And when the summer came again, + The young bride bore him babies twain; + + And the Judge was blest, but thought it strange + That bearing children made such a change; + + For Maud grew broad and red and stout, + And the waist that his arm once clasped about + + Was more than he now could span; and he + Sighed as he pondered, ruefully, + + How that which in Maud was native grace + In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place; + + And thought of the twins, and wished that they + Looked less like the men who raked the hay + + On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain + Of the day he wandered down the lane. + + And looking down that dreary track, + He half regretted that he came back; + + For, had he waited, he might have wed + Some maiden fair and thoroughbred; + + For there be women fair as she, + Whose verbs and nouns do more agree. + + Alas for maiden! alas for judge! + And the sentimental,--that's one-half "fudge;" + + For Maud soon thought the Judge a bore, + With all his learning and all his lore; + + And the Judge would have bartered Maud's fair face + For more refinement and social grace. + + If, of all words of tongue and pen, + The saddest are, "It might have been," + + More sad are these we daily see: + "It is, but hadn't ought to be." + + + + +A GEOLOGICAL MADRIGAL + + I have found out a gift for my fair; + I know where the fossils abound, + Where the footprints of Aves declare + The birds that once walked on the ground. + Oh, come, and--in technical speech-- + We'll walk this Devonian shore, + Or on some Silurian beach + We'll wander, my love, evermore. + + I will show thee the sinuous track + By the slow-moving Annelid made, + Or the Trilobite that, farther back, + In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid; + Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb, + The Plesiosaurus embalmed; + In his Oolitic prime and his bloom, + Iguanodon safe and unharmed. + + You wished--I remember it well, + And I loved you the more for that wish-- + For a perfect cystedian shell + And a WHOLE holocephalic fish. + And oh, if Earth's strata contains + In its lowest Silurian drift, + Or palaeozoic remains + The same, 'tis your lover's free gift! + + Then come, love, and never say nay, + But calm all your maidenly fears; + We'll note, love, in one summer's day + The record of millions of years; + And though the Darwinian plan + Your sensitive feelings may shock, + We'll find the beginning of man, + Our fossil ancestors, in rock! + + + + +AVITOR + + (AN AERIAL RETROSPECT) + + What was it filled my youthful dreams, + In place of Greek or Latin themes, + Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams? + Avitor! + + What visions and celestial scenes + I filled with aerial machines, + Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's! + Avitor! + + What fairy tales seemed things of course! + The roc that brought Sindbad across, + The Calendar's own winged horse! + Avitor! + + How many things I took for facts,-- + Icarus and his conduct lax, + And how he sealed his fate with wax! + Avitor! + + The first balloons I sought to sail, + Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail, + Or kites,--but thereby hangs a tail. + Avitor! + + What made me launch from attic tall + A kitten and a parasol, + And watch their bitter, frightful fall? + Avitor! + + What youthful dreams of high renown + Bade me inflate the parson's gown, + That went not up, nor yet came down? + Avitor! + + My first ascent I may not tell; + Enough to know that in that well + My first high aspirations fell. + Avitor! + + My other failures let me pass: + The dire explosions, and, alas! + The friends I choked with noxious gas. + Avitor! + + For lo! I see perfected rise + The vision of my boyish eyes, + The messenger of upper skies. + Avitor! + + + + +THE WILLOWS + + (AFTER EDGAR ALLAN POE) + + The skies they were ashen and sober, + The streets they were dirty and drear; + It was night in the month of October, + Of my most immemorial year. + Like the skies, I was perfectly sober, + As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,-- + At the Nightingale,--perfectly sober, + And the willowy woodland down here. + + Here, once in an alley Titanic + Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul,-- + Of Ten-pins, with Mary, my soul; + They were days when my heart was volcanic, + And impelled me to frequently roll, + And made me resistlessly roll, + Till my ten-strikes created a panic + In the realms of the Boreal pole,-- + Till my ten-strikes created a panic + With the monkey atop of his pole. + + I repeat, I was perfectly sober, + But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,-- + My thoughts were decidedly queer; + For I knew not the month was October, + And I marked not the night of the year; + I forgot that sweet morceau of Auber + That the band oft performed down here, + And I mixed the sweet music of Auber + With the Nightingale's music by Shear. + + And now as the night was senescent, + And star-dials pointed to morn, + And car-drivers hinted of morn, + At the end of the path a liquescent + And bibulous lustre was born; + 'Twas made by the bar-keeper present, + Who mixed a duplicate horn,-- + His two hands describing a crescent + Distinct with a duplicate horn. + + And I said: "This looks perfectly regal, + For it's warm, and I know I feel dry,-- + I am confident that I feel dry. + We have come past the emeu and eagle, + And watched the gay monkey on high; + Let us drink to the emeu and eagle, + To the swan and the monkey on high,-- + To the eagle and monkey on high; + For this bar-keeper will not inveigle, + Bully boy with the vitreous eye,-- + He surely would never inveigle, + Sweet youth with the crystalline eye." + + But Mary, uplifting her finger, + Said: "Sadly this bar I mistrust,-- + I fear that this bar does not trust. + Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger! + Oh, fly,--let us fly,--are we must!" + In terror she cried, letting sink her + Parasol till it trailed in the dust; + In agony sobbed, letting sink her + Parasol till it trailed in the dust,-- + Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust. + + Then I pacified Mary and kissed her, + And tempted her into the room, + And conquered her scruples and gloom; + And we passed to the end of the vista, + But were stopped by the warning of doom,-- + By some words that were warning of doom. + And I said, "What is written, sweet sister, + At the opposite end of the room?" + She sobbed, as she answered, "All liquors + Must be paid for ere leaving the room." + + Then my heart it grew ashen and sober, + As the streets were deserted and drear, + For my pockets were empty and drear; + And I cried: "It was surely October, + On this very night of last year, + That I journeyed, I journeyed down here,-- + That I brought a fair maiden down here, + On this night of all nights in the year! + Ah! to me that inscription is clear; + Well I know now, I'm perfectly sober, + Why no longer they credit me here,-- + Well I know now that music of Auber, + And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear." + + + + +NORTH BEACH + + (AFTER SPENSER) + + Lo! where the castle of bold Pfeiffer throws + Its sullen shadow on the rolling tide,-- + No more the home where joy and wealth repose, + But now where wassailers in cells abide; + See yon long quay that stretches far and wide, + Well known to citizens as wharf of Meiggs: + There each sweet Sabbath walks in maiden pride + The pensive Margaret, and brave Pat, whose legs + Encased in broadcloth oft keep time with Peg's. + + Here cometh oft the tender nursery-maid, + While in her ear her love his tale doth pour; + Meantime her infant doth her charge evade, + And rambleth sagely on the sandy shore, + Till the sly sea-crab, low in ambush laid, + Seizeth his leg and biteth him full sore. + Ah me! what sounds the shuddering echoes bore + When his small treble mixed with Ocean's roar! + + Hard by there stands an ancient hostelrie, + And at its side a garden, where the bear, + The stealthy catamount, and coon agree + To work deceit on all who gather there; + And when Augusta--that unconscious fair-- + With nuts and apples plieth Bruin free, + Lo! the green parrot claweth her back hair, + And the gray monkey grabbeth fruits that she + On her gay bonnet wears, and laugheth loud in glee! + + + + +THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS + + High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover, + Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet, + She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr + Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts. + + Vainly the Maenid and the Bassarid gamboled about her, + The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan--the renowned, the + accomplished--Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their + gambols and dances; + High o'er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shepherdess, + wailing: + + "Ai! for the fleecy flocks, the meek-nosed, the passionless faces; + Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high-stepping; + Ai! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, sagacious, + Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion!" + + Her then Zeus answered slow: "O daughter of song and sorrow, + Hapless tender of sheep, arise from thy long lamentation! + Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a Greek maiden, + Look and behold thy sheep." And lo! they returned to her tailless! + + + + +THE RITUALIST + + (BY A COMMUNICANT OF "ST. JAMES'S") + + He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met; + A stole and snowy alb likewise,--I recollect it yet. + He called me "daughter," as he raised his jeweled hand to bless; + And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, "Would I confess?" + + O mother dear! blame not your child, if then on bended knees + I dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise; + Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx, + I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix. + + The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me weak, + And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct "cheek;" + And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes, + May term his mixed chalice "grog," his vestments "petticoats;" + + But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I'll build a Christian's hope + On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope. + Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess: + "His can't be wrong" that's symbolized by such becoming dress. + + + + +A MORAL VINDICATOR + + If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B., + Had one peculiar quality, + 'Twas his severe advocacy + Of conjugal fidelity. + + His views of heaven were very free; + His views of life were painfully + Ridiculous; but fervently + He dwelt on marriage sanctity. + + He frequently went on a spree; + But in his wildest revelry, + On this especial subject he + Betrayed no ambiguity. + + And though at times Lycurgus B. + Did lay his hands not lovingly + Upon his wife, the sanctity + Of wedlock was his guaranty. + + But Mrs. Jones declined to see + Affairs in the same light as he, + And quietly got a decree + Divorcing her from that L. B. + + And what did Jones, Lycurgus B., + With his known idiosyncrasy? + He smiled,--a bitter smile to see,-- + And drew the weapon of Bowie. + + He did what Sickles did to Key,-- + What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he; + In fact, on persons twenty-three + He proved the marriage sanctity. + + The counselor who took the fee, + The witnesses and referee, + The judge who granted the decree, + Died in that wholesale butchery. + + And then when Jones, Lycurgus B., + Had wiped the weapon of Bowie, + Twelve jurymen did instantly + Acquit and set Lycurgus free. + + + + +CALIFORNIA MADRIGAL + + (ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING) + + Oh, come, my beloved, from thy winter abode, + From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed; + For the waters have fallen, the winter has fled, + And the river once more has returned to its bed. + + Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near! + How the fences and tules once more reappear! + How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon slough + By the hole in the levee the waters broke through! + + All nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greet + The glance of your eye and the tread of your feet; + For the trails are all open, the roads are all free, + And the highwayman's whistle is heard on the lea. + + Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail, + And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale; + The oath and the jest ringing high o'er the plain, + Where the smut is not always confined to the grain. + + Once more glares the sunlight on awning and roof, + Once more the red clay's pulverized by the hoof, + Once more the dust powders the "outsides" with red, + Once more at the station the whiskey is spread. + + Then fly with me, love, ere the summer's begun, + And the mercury mounts to one hundred and one; + Ere the grass now so green shall be withered and sear, + In the spring that obtains but one month in the year. + + + + +WHAT THE ENGINES SAID + + (OPENING OF THE PACIFIC RAILROAD) + + What was it the Engines said, + Pilots touching,--head to head + Facing on the single track, + Half a world behind each back? + This is what the Engines said, + Unreported and unread. + + With a prefatory screech, + In a florid Western speech, + Said the Engine from the WEST: + "I am from Sierra's crest; + And if altitude's a test, + Why, I reckon, it's confessed + That I've done my level best." + + Said the Engine from the EAST: + "They who work best talk the least. + S'pose you whistle down your brakes; + What you've done is no great shakes, + Pretty fair,--but let our meeting + Be a different kind of greeting. + Let these folks with champagne stuffing, + Not their Engines, do the PUFFING. + + "Listen! Where Atlantic beats + Shores of snow and summer heats; + Where the Indian autumn skies + Paint the woods with wampum dyes,-- + I have chased the flying sun, + Seeing all he looked upon, + Blessing all that he has blessed, + Nursing in my iron breast + All his vivifying heat, + All his clouds about my crest; + And before my flying feet + Every shadow must retreat." + + Said the Western Engine, "Phew!" + And a long, low whistle blew. + "Come, now, really that's the oddest + Talk for one so very modest. + You brag of your East! YOU do? + Why, I bring the East to YOU! + All the Orient, all Cathay, + Find through me the shortest way; + And the sun you follow here + Rises in my hemisphere. + Really,--if one must be rude,-- + Length, my friend, ain't longitude." + + Said the Union: "Don't reflect, or + I'll run over some Director." + Said the Central: "I'm Pacific; + But, when riled, I'm quite terrific. + Yet to-day we shall not quarrel, + Just to show these folks this moral, + How two Engines--in their vision-- + Once have met without collision." + + That is what the Engines said, + Unreported and unread; + Spoken slightly through the nose, + With a whistle at the close. + + + + +THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE + + Beetling walls with ivy grown, + Frowning heights of mossy stone; + Turret, with its flaunting flag + Flung from battlemented crag; + Dungeon-keep and fortalice + Looking down a precipice + O'er the darkly glancing wave + By the Lurline-haunted cave; + Robber haunt and maiden bower, + Home of Love and Crime and Power,-- + That's the scenery, in fine, + Of the Legends of the Rhine. + + One bold baron, double-dyed + Bigamist and parricide, + And, as most the stories run, + Partner of the Evil One; + Injured innocence in white, + Fair but idiotic quite, + Wringing of her lily hands; + Valor fresh from Paynim lands, + Abbot ruddy, hermit pale, + Minstrel fraught with many a tale,-- + Are the actors that combine + In the Legends of the Rhine. + + Bell-mouthed flagons round a board; + Suits of armor, shield, and sword; + Kerchief with its bloody stain; + Ghosts of the untimely slain; + Thunder-clap and clanking chain; + Headsman's block and shining axe; + Thumb-screw, crucifixes, racks; + Midnight-tolling chapel bell, + Heard across the gloomy fell,-- + These and other pleasant facts + Are the properties that shine + In the Legends of the Rhine. + + Maledictions, whispered vows + Underneath the linden boughs; + Murder, bigamy, and theft; + Travelers of goods bereft; + Rapine, pillage, arson, spoil,-- + Everything but honest toil, + Are the deeds that best define + Every Legend of the Rhine. + + That Virtue always meets reward, + But quicker when it wears a sword; + That Providence has special care + Of gallant knight and lady fair; + That villains, as a thing of course, + Are always haunted by remorse,-- + Is the moral, I opine, + Of the Legends of the Rhine. + + + + +SONGS WITHOUT SENSE + +FOR THE PARLOR AND PIANO + + + I. THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL + + Affection's charm no longer gilds + The idol of the shrine; + But cold Oblivion seeks to fill + Regret's ambrosial wine. + Though Friendship's offering buried lies + 'Neath cold Aversion's snow, + Regard and Faith will ever bloom + Perpetually below. + + I see thee whirl in marble halls, + In Pleasure's giddy train; + Remorse is never on that brow, + Nor Sorrow's mark of pain. + Deceit has marked thee for her own; + Inconstancy the same; + And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam + Athwart thy path of shame. + + II. THE HOMELY PATHETIC + + The dews are heavy on my brow; + My breath comes hard and low; + Yet, mother dear, grant one request, + Before your boy must go. + Oh! lift me ere my spirit sinks, + And ere my senses fail, + Place me once more, O mother dear, + Astride the old fence-rail. + + The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail! + How oft these youthful legs, + With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung + Across those wooden pegs! + 'Twas there the nauseating smoke + Of my first pipe arose: + O mother dear, these agonies + Are far less keen than those. + + I know where lies the hazel dell, + Where simple Nellie sleeps; + I know the cot of Nettie Moore, + And where the willow weeps. + I know the brookside and the mill, + But all their pathos fails + Beside the days when once I sat + Astride the old fence-rails. + + III. SWISS AIR + + I'm a gay tra, la, la, + With my fal, lal, la, la, + And my bright-- + And my light-- + Tra, la, le. [Repeat.] + + Then laugh, ha, ha, ha, + And ring, ting, ling, ling, + And sing fal, la, la, + La, la, le. [Repeat.] + + + + VI. LITTLE POSTERITY + + + + +MASTER JOHNNY'S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR + + It was spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mamma + moved in + Next door, just as skating was over, and marbles about to begin; + For the fence in our back yard was broken, and I saw, as I peeped + through the slat, + There were "Johnny-jump-ups" all around her, and I knew it was + spring just by that. + + I never knew whether she saw me, for she didn't say nothing to me, + But "Ma! here's a slat in the fence broke, and the boy that is next + door can see." + But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know Mamma says + I've a right, + And she calls out, "Well, peekin' is manners!" and I answered her, + "Sass is perlite!" + + But I wasn't a bit mad, no, Papa, and to prove it, the very next day, + When she ran past our fence in the morning I happened to get in her + way,-- + For you know I am "chunked" and clumsy, as she says are all boys of + my size,-- + And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears came in + her eyes. + + And then we were friends from that moment, for I knew that she told + Kitty Sage,-- + And she wasn't a girl that would flatter--"that she thought I was + tall for my age." + And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to ride on my + sled, + And-- "What am I telling you this for?" Why, Papa, my neighbor is + DEAD! + + You don't hear one half I am saying,--I really do think it's too bad! + Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and noticed to-day + I've been sad. + And they've got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they have + dressed her in white, + And I've never once looked through the fence, Pa, since she died--at + eleven last night. + + And Ma says it's decent and proper, as I was her neighbor and friend, + That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that YOU ought + to attend; + But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the way, + And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I wouldn't know just what + to say. + + So I think I will get up quite early,--I know I sleep late, but I know + I'll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that I'll tie + to my toe; + And I'll crawl through the fence, and I'll gather the "Johnny-jump-ups" + as they grew + Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I'll give + them to you. + + For you're a big man, and, you know, Pa, can come and go just where + you choose, + And you'll take the flowers in to her, and surely they'll never + refuse; + But, Papa, don't SAY they're from Johnny; THEY won't understand, + don't you see? + But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, SHE'LL know they're + from Me. + + + + +MISS EDITH'S MODEST REQUEST + + My Papa knows you, and he says you're a man who makes reading for + books; + But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did Papa,--I know by his + looks. + So I guess you're like me when I talk, and I talk, and I talk all + the day, + And they only say, "Do stop that child!" or, "Nurse, take Miss Edith + away." + + But Papa said if I was good I could ask you--alone by myself-- + If you wouldn't write me a book like that little one up on the shelf. + I don't mean the pictures, of course, for to make THEM you've got to + be smart + But the reading that runs all around them, you know,--just the + easiest part. + + You needn't mind what it's about, for no one will see it but me, + And Jane,--that's my nurse,--and John,--he's the coachman,--just + only us three. + You're to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and bold and + all that; + And then you're to write, if you please, something good--very good-- + of a cat! + + This cat, she was virtuous and meek, and kind to her parents, and + mild, + And careful and neat in her ways, though her mistress was such a bad + child; + And hours she would sit and would gaze when her mistress--that's me-- + was so bad, + And blink, just as if she would say, "Oh, Edith! you make my heart + sad." + + And yet, you would scarcely believe it, that beautiful, angelic cat + Was blamed by the servants for stealing whatever, they said, she'd + get at. + And when John drank my milk,--don't you tell me! I know just the + way it was done,-- + They said 'twas the cat,--and she sitting and washing her face in + the sun! + + And then there was Dick, my canary. When I left its cage open one + day, + They all made believe that she ate it, though I know that the bird + flew away. + And why? Just because she was playing with a feather she found on + the floor. + As if cats couldn't play with a feather without people thinking + 'twas more! + + Why, once we were romping together, when I knocked down a vase from + the shelf, + That cat was as grieved and distressed as if she had done it herself; + And she walked away sadly and hid herself, and never came out until + tea,-- + So they say, for they sent ME to bed, and she never came even to me. + + No matter whatever happened, it was laid at the door of that cat. + Why, once when I tore my apron,--she was wrapped in it, and I called + "Rat!"-- + Why, they blamed that on HER. I shall never--no, not to my dying + day-- + Forget the pained look that she gave me when they slapped ME and + took me away. + + Of course, you know just what comes next, when a child is as lovely + as that: + She wasted quite slowly away; it was goodness was killing that cat. + I know it was nothing she ate, for her taste was exceedingly nice; + But they said she stole Bobby's ice cream, and caught a bad cold + from the ice. + + And you'll promise to make me a book like that little one up on the + shelf, + And you'll call her "Naomi," because it's a name that she just gave + herself; + For she'd scratch at my door in the morning, and whenever I'd call + out, "Who's there?" + She would answer, "Naomi! Naomi!" like a Christian, I vow and declare. + + And you'll put me and her in a book. And mind, you're to say I was + bad; + And I might have been badder than that but for the example I had. + And you'll say that she was a Maltese, and--what's that you asked? + "Is she dead?" + Why, please, sir, THERE AIN'T ANY CAT! You're to make one up out of + your head! + + + + +MISS EDITH MAKES IT PLEASANT FOR BROTHER JACK + + "Crying!" Of course I am crying, and I guess you would be crying, + too, + If people were telling such stories as they tell about me, about YOU. + Oh yes, you can laugh if you want to, and smoke as you didn't care + how, + And get your brains softened like uncle's. Dr. Jones says you're + gettin' it now. + + Why don't you say "Stop!" to Miss Ilsey? She cries twice as much as + I do, + And she's older and cries just from meanness,--for a ribbon or + anything new. + Ma says it's her "sensitive nature." Oh my! No, I sha'n't stop my + talk! + And I don't want no apples nor candy, and I don't want to go take a + walk! + + I know why you're mad! Yes, I do, now! You think that Miss Ilsey + likes YOU, + And I've heard her REPEATEDLY call you the bold-facest boy that she + knew; + And she'd "like to know where you learnt manners." Oh yes! Kick + the table,--that's right! + Spill the ink on my dress, and go then round telling Ma that I look + like a fright! + + What stories? Pretend you don't know that they're saying I broke + off the match + Twixt old Money-grubber and Mary, by saying she called him + "Crosspatch," + When the only allusion I made him about sister Mary was, she + Cared more for his cash than his temper, and you know, Jack, you + said that to me. + + And it's true! But it's ME, and I'm scolded, and Pa says if I keep + on I might + By and by get my name in the papers! Who cares? Why, 'twas only + last night + I was reading how Pa and the sheriff were selling some lots, and + it's plain + If it's awful to be in the papers, why, Papa would go and complain. + + You think it ain't true about Ilsey? Well, I guess I know girls, + and I say + There's nothing I see about Ilsey to show she likes you, anyway! + I know what it means when a girl who has called her cat after one + boy + Goes and changes its name to another's. And she's done it--and I + wish you joy! + + + + +MISS EDITH MAKES ANOTHER FRIEND + + Oh, you're the girl lives on the corner? Come in--if you want to-- + come quick! + There's no one but me in the house, and the cook--but she's only a + stick. + Don't try the front way, but come over the fence--through the + window--that's how. + Don't mind the big dog--he won't bite you--just see him obey me! + there, now! + + What's your name? Mary Ellen? How funny! Mine's Edith--it's + nicer, you see; + But yours does for you, for you're plainer, though maybe you're + gooder than me; + For Jack says I'm sometimes a devil, but Jack, of all folks, needn't + talk, + For I don't call the seamstress an angel till Ma says the poor thing + must "walk." + + Come in! It's quite dark in the parlor, for sister will keep the + blinds down, + For you know her complexion is sallow like yours, but she isn't as + brown; + Though Jack says that isn't the reason she likes to sit here with + Jim Moore. + Do you think that he meant that she kissed him? Would you--if your + lips wasn't sore? + + If you like, you can try our piano. 'Tain't ours. A man left it + here + To rent by the month, although Ma says he hasn't been paid for a + year. + Sister plays--oh, such fine variations!--why, I once heard a + gentleman say + That she didn't mind THAT for the music--in fact, it was just in her + way! + + Ain't I funny? And yet it's the queerest of all that, whatever I + say, + One half of the folks die a-laughing, and the rest, they all look + t'other way. + And some say, "That child!" Do they ever say that to such people as + you? + Though maybe you're naturally silly, and that makes your eyes so + askew. + + Now stop--don't you dare to be crying! Just as sure as you live, if + you do, + I'll call in my big dog to bite you, and I'll make my Papa kill you, + too! + And then where'll you be? So play pretty. There's my doll, and a + nice piece of cake. + You don't want it--you think it is poison! Then I'LL eat it, dear, + just for your sake! + + + + +WHAT MISS EDITH SAW FROM HER WINDOW + + Our window's not much, though it fronts on the street; + There's a fly in the pane that gets nothin' to eat; + But it's curious how people think it's a treat + For ME to look out of the window! + + Why, when company comes, and they're all speaking low, + With their chairs drawn together, then some one says, "Oh! + Edith dear!--that's a good child--now run, love, and go + And amuse yourself there at the window!" + + Or Bob--that's my brother--comes in with his chum, + And they whisper and chuckle, the same words will come. + And it's "Edith, look here! Oh, I say! what a rum + Lot of things you can see from that window!" + + And yet, as I told you, there's only that fly + Buzzing round in the pane, and a bit of blue sky, + And the girl in the opposite window, that I + Look at when SHE looks from HER window. + + And yet, I've been thinking I'd so like to see + If what goes on behind HER, goes on behind ME! + And then, goodness gracious! what fun it would be + For us BOTH as we sit by our window! + + How we'd know when the parcels were hid in a drawer, + Or things taken out that one never sees more; + What people come in and go out of the door, + That we never see from the window! + + And that night when the stranger came home with our Jane + I might SEE what I HEARD then, that sounded so plain-- + Like when my wet fingers I rub on the pane + (Which they won't let ME do on my window). + + And I'd know why papa shut the door with a slam, + And said something funny that sounded like "jam," + And then "Edith--where are you?" I said, "Here I am." + "Ah, that's right, dear, look out of the window!" + + They say when I'm grown up these things will appear + More plain than they do when I look at them here, + But I think I see some things uncommonly clear, + As I sit and look down from the window. + + What things? Oh, the things that I make up, you know, + Out of stories I've read--and they all pass below. + Ali Baba, the Forty Thieves, all in a row, + Go by, as I look from my window. + + That's only at church time; other days there's no crowd. + Don't laugh! See that big man who looked up and bowed? + That's our butcher--I call him the Sultan Mahoud + When he nods to me here at the window! + + And THAT man--he's our neighbor--just gone for a ride + Has three wives in the churchyard that lie side by side. + So I call him "Bluebeard" in search of his bride, + While I'm Sister Anne at the window. + + And what do I call you? Well, here's what I DO: + When my sister expects you, she puts me here, too; + But I wait till you enter, to see if it's you, + And then--I just OPEN the window! + + "Dear child!" Yes, that's me! "Oh, you ask what that's for? + Well, Papa says you're 'Poverty's self,' and what's more, + I open the window, when YOU'RE at the door, + To see Love fly out of the window!" + + + + +ON THE LANDING + + (AN IDYL OF THE BALUSTERS) + + + BOBBY, aetat. 3 1/2. JOHNNY, aetat. 4 1/2. + + + BOBBY + + Do you know why they've put us in that back room, + Up in the attic, close against the sky, + And made believe our nursery's a cloak-room? + Do you know why? + + JOHNNY + + No more I don't, nor why that Sammy's mother, + What Ma thinks horrid, 'cause he bunged my eye, + Eats an ice cream, down there, like any other! + No more don't I! + + BOBBY + + Do you know why Nurse says it isn't manners + For you and me to ask folks twice for pie, + And no one hits that man with two bananas? + Do you know why? + + JOHNNY + + No more I don't, nor why that girl, whose dress is + Off of her shoulders, don't catch cold and die, + When you and me gets croup when WE undresses! + No more don't I! + + BOBBY + + Perhaps she ain't as good as you and I is, + And God don't want her up there in the sky, + And lets her live--to come in just when pie is-- + Perhaps that's why! + + JOHNNY + + Do you know why that man that's got a cropped head + Rubbed it just now as if he felt a fly? + Could it be, Bobby, something that I dropped? + And is that why? + + BOBBY + + Good boys behaves, and so they don't get scolded, + Nor drop hot milk on folks as they pass by. + + JOHNNY (piously) + + Marbles would bounce on Mr. Jones' bald head-- + But I sha'n't try! + + BOBBY + + Do you know why Aunt Jane is always snarling + At you and me because we tells a lie, + And she don't slap that man that called her darling? + Do you know why? + + JOHNNY + + No more I don't, nor why that man with Mamma + Just kissed her hand. + + BOBBY + + She hurt it--and that's why; + He made it well, the very way that Mamma + Does do to I. + + JOHNNY + + I feel so sleepy.... Was that Papa kissed us? + What made him sigh, and look up to the sky? + + BOBBY + + We weren't downstairs, and he and God had missed us, + And that was why! + + + + + +NOTES + +THE LOST GALLEON. As the custom on which the central incident of +this legend is based may not be familiar to all readers, I will +repeat here that it is the habit of navigators to drop a day from +their calendar in crossing westerly the 180th degree of longitude of +Greenwich, adding a day in coming east; and that the idea of the +lost galleon had an origin as prosaic as the log of the first China +Mail Steamer from San Francisco. The explanation of the custom and +its astronomical relations belongs rather to the usual text-books +than to poetical narration. If any reader thinks I have overdrawn +the credulous superstitions of the ancient navigators, I refer him +to the veracious statements of Maldonado, De Fonte, the later +voyages of La Perouse and Anson, and the charts of 1640. In the +charts of that day Spanish navigators reckoned longitude E. 360 +degrees from the meridian of the Isle of Ferro. For the sake of +perspicuity before a modern audience, the more recent meridian of +Madrid was substituted. The custom of dropping a day at some +arbitrary point in crossing the Pacific westerly, I need not say, +remains unaffected by any change of meridian. I know not if any +galleon was ever really missing. For two hundred and fifty years an +annual trip was made between Acapulco and Manila. It may be some +satisfaction to the more severely practical of my readers to know +that, according to the best statistics of insurance, the loss during +that period would be exactly three vessels and six hundredths of a +vessel, which would certainly justify me in this summary disposition +of ONE. + +THE PLIOCENE SKULL. This extraordinary fossil is in the possession +of Prof. Josiah D. Whitney, of the State Geological Survey of +California. The poem was based on the following paragraph from the +daily press of 1868: "A human skull has been found in California, in +the pliocene formation. This skull is the remnant not only of the +earliest pioneer of this State, but the oldest known human being.... +The skull was found in a shaft 150 feet deep, two miles from Angels +in Calaveras County, by a miner named James Watson, who gave it to +Mr. Scribner, a merchant, who gave it to Dr. Jones, who sent it to +the State Geological Survey.... The published volume of the +State Survey of the Geology of California states that man existed +here contemporaneously with the mastodon, but this fossil proves +that he was here before the mastodon was known to exist." + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Complete Poetical Works of Bret Harte, by +Bret Harte + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS *** + +***** This file should be named 2507.txt or 2507.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/0/2507/ + +Produced by Donald Lainson + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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