(REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO)Drunk and senseless in his place,Prone and sprawling on his face,More like brute than any manAlive 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 crownUnderneath this heel of mine:Since but deathDeserves the man whose deed,Be it vice or want of heed,Stops the pumps that give us breath,—Stops the pumps that suck the deathFrom the poisoned lower levels of the mine!"No one answered; for a cryFrom the shaft rose up on high,And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below,Came the miners each, the bolderMounting on the weaker's shoulder,Grappling, clinging to their hold orLetting go,As the weaker gasped and fellFrom the ladder to the well,—To the poisoned pit of hellDown 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 ropeFace 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 sawFainting 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 fastThe long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!Haggard, gasping, down dropped heAt the feet of Harry Lee,—Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine."I have come," he gasped, "to claimBoth rewards. Senor, my nameIs Ramon!I'm the drunken engineer,I'm the coward, Senor"— HereHe fell over, by that sign,Dead as stone!
(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 hereAs Don Diego del Sud. I fearThe story's no new one! Will you hear?One of those spirits you can't tell whyGod has permitted. Therein IHave the advantage, for I holdThat 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—indeedI have no patience... To proceed:—You saw, as you passed through the upper town,The Eucinal where the road goes downTo San Felipe! There one mornThey found Diego,—his mantle torn,And as many holes through his doublet's bandAs 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 nightThe Commandante awoke in fright,Hearing below his casement's barThe well-known twang of the Don's guitar;And rushed to the window, just to seeHis wife a-swoon on the balcony.One week later, Don Juan RamirezFound his own daughter, the Dona Inez,Pale as a ghost, leaning out to hearThe song of that phantom cavalier.Even Alcalde Pedro BlasSaw, it was said, through his niece's glass,The shade of Diego twice repass.What these gentlemen each confessedHeaven and the Church only knows. At bestThe case was a bad one. How to dealWith Sin as a Ghost, they couldn't but feelWas an awful thing. Till a certain FrayHumbly offered to show the way.And the way was this. Did I say beforeThat the Fray was a stranger? No, Senor?Strange! very strange! I should have saidThat the very week that the Don lay deadHe came among us. Bread he brokeSilent, nor ever to one he spoke.So he had vowed it! Below his browsHis face was hidden. There are such vows!Strange! are they not? You do not useSnuff? A bad habit!Well, the viewsOf the Fray were these: that the penance doneBy the caballeros was right; but oneWas due from the CAUSE, and that, in brief,Was Dona Dolores Gomez, chief,And Inez, Sanchicha, Concepcion,And Carmen,—well, half the girls in townOn his tablets the Friar had written down.These were to come on a certain dayAnd ask at the hands of the pious FrayFor absolution. That done, small fearBut the shade of Diego would disappear.They came; each knelt in her turn and placeTo the pious Fray with his hidden faceAnd voiceless lips, and each againTook back her soul freed from spot or stain,Till the Dona Inez, with eyes downcastAnd a tear on their fringes, knelt her last.And then—perhaps that her voice was lowFrom fear or from shame—the monks said so—But the Fray leaned forward, when, presto! allWere thrilled by a scream, and saw her fallFainting beside the confessional.And so was the ghost of Diego laidAs the Fray had said. Never more his shadeWas 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 trueWho 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 lawWe 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 hereIs stuff for a moral. What's your view?You smile, Don Pancho. Ah! that's like you!
Know I not whom thou mayst beCarved upon this olive-tree,—"Manuela of La Torre,"—For around on broken wallsSummer sun and spring rain falls,And in vain the low wind calls"Manuela of La Torre."Of that song no words remainBut the musical refrain,—"Manuela of La Torre."Yet at night, when winds are still,Tinkles on the distant hillA guitar, and words that thrillTell to me the old, old story,—Old when first thy charms were sung,Old when these old walls were young,"Manuela of La Torre."
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 handHad planted it when Faith was taught by Fear,When monks and missions held the sole commandOf 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 scatterEach 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 backTo 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 drearyThan 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 thoroughAnd deep conviction of God's goodness; stillHe failed to see that in His glory HeYet left the humblest of His creatures free.He saw the flapping crow, whose frequent noteVoiced the monotony of land and sky,Mocking with graceless wing and rusty coatHis 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 preferredTheir heathen darkness to the living Word.He rang his bell, and at the martial soundTwelve silver spurs their jingling rowels clashed;Six horses sprang across the level groundAs 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 moreThey 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 roseAnd every other prudent thought excluded;He caught a lasso, and dashed in a canterAfter 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'sAbility to gorge the tough tortilla;But all things come by practice, and at lastHis flying slip-knot caught the maiden fast.Then rose above the plain a mingled yellOf 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 steedAnd helpless Friar, who in vain essayedTo 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 divestThemselves of it, but, like some awful fetch,The holy Friar had to recognizeThe 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 thoroughThe contrast was to his condition; stillThe squaw kept onward to the sea, till nightAnd 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 hostOf chattering birds above the Mission spires,Filling the land with light and joy, but mostThe savage woods with all their leafy lyres;In pearly tints and opal flame and fireThe morning came, but not the holy Friar.Weeks passed away. In vain the Fathers soughtSome trace or token that might tell his story;Some thought him dead, or, like Elijah, caughtUp to the heavens in a blaze of glory.In this surmise some miracles were wroughtOn his account, and souls in purgatoryWere thought to profit from his intercession;In brief, his absence made a "deep impression."A twelvemonth passed; the welcome Spring once moreMade 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 doorAt 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 dayThat Friar Pedro rode abroad lassoing,A ghostly couple came and went awayWith 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 FriarPerformed 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 fallsThrough 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-dayOutline the Mission of San Luis Rey.
(1865)FATHER FELIPEI speak not the English well, but Pachita,She speak for me; is it not so, my Pancha?Eh, little rogue? Come, salute me the strangerAmericano.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 fiftyGone 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 toSan 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 cattleOf 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 muchUnder 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?
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 sunFor 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 sandalAnd 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 yearVotive candles wore scarce and dear.Never a tear bedims the eyeThat time and patience will not dry;Never a lip is curved with painThat can't be kissed into smiles again;And these same truths, as far as I know,Obtained on the coast of MexicoMore 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 degreeDirect 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 chipThey 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 degreeLongitude 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, yetRiding the seas, with sails all set,Fresh as upon the very dayShe sailed from Acapulco Bay.How did she get there? What strange spellKept 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 notA cable's length from a galliotThat rocked on the waters just abreastOf 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: mayI 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 seeThe 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 youNot 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 onThe hundred and eightieth degreeShe rose and fell on a tropic sea.But lo! when it came to the ninth of May,All of a sudden becalmed she layOne 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 sportOf 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 yearsOf 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 lineIn nineteen hundred and thirty-nine:Just three hundred years to a dayFrom 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 sunThe 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 moreIn 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.
Say there! P'r'apsSome on you chapsMight know Jim Wild?Well,—no offense:Thar ain't no senseIn gittin' riled!Jim was my chumUp on the Bar:That's why I comeDown from up yar,Lookin' for Jim.Thank ye, sir! YOUAin'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 yearSince 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 shopBut you must r'ar?It wouldn't takeD——d much to breakYou 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 oldLong-legged Jim.
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 thatfoolin'!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 neveyStruck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water allround 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 thecanyon.Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and ChiquitaBuckled 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' tothunder!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 arider;And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses—well, hosses ishosses!
(1856)Dow's Flat. That's its name;And I reckon that youAre 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 firstview.It was called after Dow,—Which the same was an ass,—And as to the howThet the thing kem to pass,—Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here in thegrass.You see this 'yer DowHed the worst kind of luck;He slipped up somehowOn each thing thet he struck.Why, ef he'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing'd get upand buck.He mined on the barTill he couldn't pay rates;He was smashed by a carWhen he tunneled with Bates;And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five kids fromthe States.It was rough,—mighty rough;But the boys they stood by,And they brought him the stuffFor a house, on the sly;And the old woman,—well, she did washing, and took on when no onewas nigh.But this 'yer luck of Dow'sWas so powerful meanThat the spring near his houseDried 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 noonTo his work like the rest,With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and derringer hid in hisbreast.He goes to the well,And he stands on the brink,And stops for a spellJest to listen and think:For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir!), you see, kinder madethe cuss blink.His two ragged galsIn the gulch were at play,And a gownd that was Sal'sKinder flapped on a bay:Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all,—as I've heer'd thefolks say.And—That's a peart hossThet 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 pickSorter 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 oughtsWas the worth of that strike;And that house with the coopilow's his'n,—which the same isn't badfor a Pike.Thet's why it's Dow's Flat;And the thing of it isThat he kinder got thatThrough sheer contrairiness:For 'twas WATER the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck made himcertain 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.
Didn't know Flynn,—Flynn of Virginia,—Long as he's been 'yar?Look 'ee here, stranger,Whar HEV you been?Here in this tunnelHe 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 sinTo 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 timbersReady to fall;Then in the darknessI heard him call:"Run for your life, Jake!Run for your wife's sake!Don't wait for me."And that was allHeard in the din,Heard of Tom Flynn,—Flynn of Virginia.That's all aboutFlynn of Virginia.That lets me out.Here in the damp,—Out of the sun,—That 'ar derned lampMakes my eyes run.Well, there,—I'm done!But, sir, when you'llHear the next foolAsking of Flynn,—Flynn of Virginia,—Just you chip in,Say you knew Flynn;Say that you've been 'yar.
(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 thematter 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 thescent,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 thenand 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 nowThan the day I packed her and her mother,—I'm derned if I jest knowhow.But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o' the whole thing isThat 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 tellAs how 'twas the doctor's lantern,—for maybe 'twon't sound so well.
(SIMPSON'S BAR, 1858)So you've kem 'yer agen,And one answer won't do?Well, of all the derned menThat I've struck, it is you.O Sal! 'yer's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavortin' round 'yerin the dew.Kem in, ef you WILL.Thar,—quit! Take a cheer.Not that; you can't fillThem theer cushings this year,—For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and they don't makesuch 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'trise.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 youchoose,—Lord! where's Sal?