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.
_Bret Harte._
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 man 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 trespa.s.sing 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 a.s.s--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.
_Bret Harte._
"JIM"
Say there! P"r"aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild!
Well,--no offence: 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?-- Jess "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 gla.s.s "n yer shop But you must rar"?
It wouldn"t take 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-bye-- No more, sir,--I-- Eh?
What"s that you say?-- Why, dern it!--sho!-- No? Yes! By Jo!
Sold!
Sold! Why, you limb!
You ornery, Derned old Long-legged Jim!
_Bret Harte._
WILLIAM BROWN OF OREGON
They called him Bill, the hired man, But she, her name was Mary Jane, The Squire"s daughter; and to reign The belle from Ber-she-be to Dan Her little game. How lovers rash Got mittens at the spelling school!
How many a mute, inglorious fool Wrote rhymes and sighed and died--mustache!
This hired man had loved her long, Had loved her best and first and last, Her very garments as she pa.s.sed For him had symphony and song.
So when one day with sudden frown She called him "Bill," he raised his head, He caught her eye and, faltering, said, "I love you; and my name is Brown."
She fairly waltzed with rage; she wept; You would have thought the house on fire.
She told her sire, the portly squire, Then smelt her smelling-salts, and slept.
Poor William did what could be done; He swung a pistol on each hip, He gathered up a great ox-whip, And drove toward the setting sun.
He crossed the great back-bone of earth, He saw the snowy mountains rolled Like mighty billows; saw the gold Of awful sunsets; felt the birth Of sudden dawn that burst the night Like resurrection; saw the face Of G.o.d and named it boundless s.p.a.ce Ringed round with room and sh.o.r.eless light.
Her lovers pa.s.sed. Wolves hunt in packs, They sought for bigger game; somehow They seemed to see above her brow The forky sign of turkey tracks.
The teter-board of life goes up, The teter-board of life goes down, The sweetest face must learn to frown; The biggest dog has been a pup.
O maidens! pluck not at the air; The sweetest flowers I have found Grow rather close unto the ground, And highest places are most bare.
Why, you had better win the grace Of our poor cussed Af-ri-can, Than win the eyes of every man In love alone with his own face.
At last she nursed her true desire.
She sighed, she wept for William Brown, She watched the splendid sun go down Like some great sailing ship on fire, Then rose and checked her trunk right on; And in the cars she lunched and lunched, And had her ticket punched and punched, Until she came to Oregon.