WILL CARLETON.

(‡ decoration)WILL CARLETON.AUTHOR OF “BETSY AND I ARE OUT.”FEW writers of homely verse have been more esteemed than Will Carleton. His poems are to be found in almost every book of selections for popular reading. They are well adapted to recitation and are favorites with general audiences. With few exceptions they are portraitures of the humorous side of rural life and frontier scenes; but they are executed with a vividness and truth to nature that does credit to the author and insures their preservation as faithful portraits of social conditions and frontier scenes and provincialisms which the advance of education is fast relegating to the past.Will Carleton was born in Hudson, Michigan, October 21, 1845. His father was a pioneer settler who came from New Hampshire. Young Carleton remained at home on the farm until he was sixteen years of age, attending the district school in the winters and working on the farm during the summers. At the age of sixteen he became a teacher in a country school and for the next four years divided his time between teaching, attending school and working as a farm-hand, during which time he also contributed articles in both prose and verse to local papers. In 1865 he entered Hillsdale College, Michigan, from which he graduated in 1869. Since 1870 he has been engaged in journalistic and literary work and has also lectured frequently in the West. It was during his early experiences as a teacher in “boarding round” that he doubtless gathered the incidents which are so graphically detailed in his poems.There is a homely pathos seldom equalled in the two selections “Betsy and I Are Out” and “How Betsy and I Made Up” that have gained for them a permanent place in the affections of the reading public. In other of his poems, like “Makin’ an Editor Outen Him,” “A Lightning Rod Dispenser,” “The Christmas Baby,”etc., there is a rich vein of humor that has given them an enduring popularity. “The First Settler’s Story” is a most graphic picture of pioneer life, portraying the hardships which early settlers frequently endured and in which the depressing homesickness often felt for the scenes of their childhood and the far-away East is pathetically told.Mr.Carleton’s first volume of poems appeared in 1871, and was printed for private distribution. “Betsy and I Are Out” appeared in 1872 in the “Toledo Blade.” It was copied in “Harper’s Weekly,” and illustrated. This was really the author’s first recognition in literary circles. In 1873 appeared a collection of hispoems entitled “Farm Ballads,” including the now famous selections, “Out of the Old House, Nancy,” “Over the Hills to the Poorhouse,” “Gone With a Handsomer Man,” and “How Betsy and I Made Up.” Other well-known volumes by the same author are entitled “Farm Legends,” “Young Folk’s Centennial Rhymes,” “Farm Festivals,” and “City Ballads.”In his preface to the first volume of his poemsMr.Carleton modestly apologizes for whatever imperfections they may possess in a manner which gives us some insight into his literary methods. “These poems,” he writes, “have been written under various, and in some cases difficult, conditions: in the open air, with team afield; in the student’s den, with ghosts of unfinished lessons hovering gloomily about; amid the rush and roar of railroad travel, which trains of thought are not prone to follow; and in the editor’s sanctum, where the dainty feet of the muses do not often deign to tread.”ButMr.Carleton does not need to apologize. He has the true poetic instinct. His descriptions are vivid, and as a narrative versifier he has been excelled by few, if indeed any depicter of Western farm life.Will Carleton has also written considerable prose, which has been collected and published in book form, but it is his poetical works which have entitled him to public esteem, and it is for these that he will be longest remembered in literature.BETSY AND I AREOUT.¹DRAW up the papers, lawyer, and make ’em good and stout,For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are out,—We who have worked together so long as man and wifeMust pull in single harness the rest of our nat’ral life.“What is the matter,” says you? I swan it’s hard to tell!Most of the years behind us we’ve passed by very well;I have no other woman—she has no other man;Only we’ve lived together as long as ever we can.So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;And we’ve agreed together that we can never agree;Not that we’ve catched each other in any terrible crime;We’ve been a gatherin’ this for years, a little at a time.There was a stock of temper we both had for a start;Although we ne’er suspected ’twould take us two apart;I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone,And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own.The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed,Was somethin’ concerning heaven—a difference in our creed;We arg’ed the thing at breakfast—we arg’ed the thing at tea—And the more we arg’ed the question, the more we couldn’t agree.And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow;She had kicked the bucket, for certain—the question was only—How?I held my opinion, and Betsy another had;And when we were done a talkin’, we both of us was mad.And the next that I remember, it started in a joke;But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke.And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl;And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn’t any soul.And so the thing kept workin’, and all the self-same way;Always somethin’ to ar’ge and something sharp to say,—And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o’ dozen strong,And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along.And there have been days together—and many a weary week—When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak;And I have been thinkin’ and thinkin’, the whole of the summer and fall,If I can’t live kind with a woman, why, then I won’t at all.And so I’ve talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;And we have agreed together that we can never agree;And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine;And I’ll put it in the agreement, and take it to her to sign.Write on the paper, lawyer—the very first paragraph—Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half;For she has helped to earn it through many a weary day,And it’s nothin’ more than justice that Betsy has her pay.Give her the house and homestead; a man can thrive and roam,But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home.And I have always determined, and never failed to say,That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken away.There’s a little hard money besides, that’s drawin’ tol’rable pay,A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day,—Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at;Put in another clause there, and give her all of that.I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin’ her so much;Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such;True and fair I married her, when she was blythe and young,And Betsy was always good to me exceptin’ with her tongue.When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps,For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps;And all of ’em was flustered, and fairly taken down,And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town.Once when I had a fever—I won’t forget it soon—I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon—Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight;She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night.And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean,Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen,And I don’t complain of Betsy or any of her acts,Exceptin’ when we’ve quarreled, and told each other facts.So draw up the paper, lawyer; and I’ll go home to-night,And read the agreement to her, and see if it’s all right;And then in the morning I’ll sell to a tradin’ man I know—And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I’ll go.And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn’t occur;That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her,And lay me under the maple we planted years ago,When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so.And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me;And lyin’ together in silence, perhaps we’ll then agree;And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn’t think it queerIf we loved each other the better because we’ve quarreled here.¹From “Farm Ballads.” Copyright 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.GONE WITH A HANDSOMERMAN.¹(FROM “FARM BALLADS.”)John.I’VE worked in the field all day, a plowin’ the “stony streak;”I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse; I’ve tramped till my legs are weak;I’ve choked a dozen swears, (so’s not to tell Jane fibs,)When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles punched my ribs.I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats;I’ve fed ’em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats;And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ feel,And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a meal.Well said! the door is locked! out here she’s left the key,Under the step, in a place known only to her and me;I wonder who’s dyin’ or dead, that she’s hustled off pell-mell;But here on the table’s a note, and probably this will tell.Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone astray!The letter it says, “Good-bye, for I’m a going away;I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I’ve been true;But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man than you.”A han’somer man than me! Why, that ain’t much to say;There’s han’somer men than me go past here every day.There’s han’somer men than me—I ain’t of the han’some kind;But aloven’erman than I was, I guess she’ll never find.Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings!May the words of love I’ve spoken be changed to scorpion stings!Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt,And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart’s blood out!Curse her! curse her! say I, she’ll some time rue this day;She’ll some time learn that hate is a game that two can play;And long before she dies she’ll grieve she ever was born,And I’ll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn.As sure as the world goes on, there’ll come a time when sheWill read the devilish heart of that han’somer man than me;And there’ll be a time when he will find, as others do,That she who is false to one, can be the same with two.And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow dim,And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him,She’ll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count the cost;And then she’ll see things clear, and know what she has lost.And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind,And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind;And maybe she’ll sometimes long for me—for me—but no!I’ve blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so.And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin’ or other she hadThat fastened a man to her, and wasn’t entirely bad;And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn’t last;But I mustn’t think of these things—I’ve buried ’em in the past.I’ll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter worse;She’ll have trouble enough; she shall not have my curse;But I’ll live a life so square—and I well know that I can,—That she always will sorry be that she went with that han’somer man.Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my poor eyes blur;It seems when I look at that, as if ’twas holdin’ her.And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat,And yonder’s her weddin’ gown; I wonder she didn’t take that.’Twas only this mornin’ she came and called me her “dearest dear,”And said I was makin’ for her a regular paradise here;O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell,Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a spell!Good-bye! I wish that death had severed us two apart.You’ve lost a worshiper here, you’ve crushed a lovin’ heart.I’ll worship no woman again; but I guess I’ll learn to pray,And kneel asyouused to kneel, before you run away.And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven to bear,And if I thought I had some little influence there,I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so,As happy and gay as I was a half-hour ago.Jane(entering).Why, John, what a litter here! you’ve thrown things all around!Come, what’s the matter now? and what have you lost or found?And here’s my father here, a waiting for supper, too;I’ve been a riding with him—he’s that “handsomer man than you.”Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John.Why, John, you look so strange! come, what has crossed your track?I was only a joking, you know; I’m willing to take it back.John(aside).Well, now, if thisain’ta joke, with rather a bitter cream!It seems as if I’d woke from a mighty ticklish dream;And I think she “smells a rat,” for she smiles at me so queer,I hope she don’t; good gracious! I hope that they didn’t hear!’Twas one of her practical drives—she thought I’d understand!But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.But one thing’s settled with me—to appreciate heaven well,’Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell.¹Copyright, 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.(‡ decoration)

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AUTHOR OF “BETSY AND I ARE OUT.”

FEW writers of homely verse have been more esteemed than Will Carleton. His poems are to be found in almost every book of selections for popular reading. They are well adapted to recitation and are favorites with general audiences. With few exceptions they are portraitures of the humorous side of rural life and frontier scenes; but they are executed with a vividness and truth to nature that does credit to the author and insures their preservation as faithful portraits of social conditions and frontier scenes and provincialisms which the advance of education is fast relegating to the past.

Will Carleton was born in Hudson, Michigan, October 21, 1845. His father was a pioneer settler who came from New Hampshire. Young Carleton remained at home on the farm until he was sixteen years of age, attending the district school in the winters and working on the farm during the summers. At the age of sixteen he became a teacher in a country school and for the next four years divided his time between teaching, attending school and working as a farm-hand, during which time he also contributed articles in both prose and verse to local papers. In 1865 he entered Hillsdale College, Michigan, from which he graduated in 1869. Since 1870 he has been engaged in journalistic and literary work and has also lectured frequently in the West. It was during his early experiences as a teacher in “boarding round” that he doubtless gathered the incidents which are so graphically detailed in his poems.

There is a homely pathos seldom equalled in the two selections “Betsy and I Are Out” and “How Betsy and I Made Up” that have gained for them a permanent place in the affections of the reading public. In other of his poems, like “Makin’ an Editor Outen Him,” “A Lightning Rod Dispenser,” “The Christmas Baby,”etc., there is a rich vein of humor that has given them an enduring popularity. “The First Settler’s Story” is a most graphic picture of pioneer life, portraying the hardships which early settlers frequently endured and in which the depressing homesickness often felt for the scenes of their childhood and the far-away East is pathetically told.

Mr.Carleton’s first volume of poems appeared in 1871, and was printed for private distribution. “Betsy and I Are Out” appeared in 1872 in the “Toledo Blade.” It was copied in “Harper’s Weekly,” and illustrated. This was really the author’s first recognition in literary circles. In 1873 appeared a collection of hispoems entitled “Farm Ballads,” including the now famous selections, “Out of the Old House, Nancy,” “Over the Hills to the Poorhouse,” “Gone With a Handsomer Man,” and “How Betsy and I Made Up.” Other well-known volumes by the same author are entitled “Farm Legends,” “Young Folk’s Centennial Rhymes,” “Farm Festivals,” and “City Ballads.”

In his preface to the first volume of his poemsMr.Carleton modestly apologizes for whatever imperfections they may possess in a manner which gives us some insight into his literary methods. “These poems,” he writes, “have been written under various, and in some cases difficult, conditions: in the open air, with team afield; in the student’s den, with ghosts of unfinished lessons hovering gloomily about; amid the rush and roar of railroad travel, which trains of thought are not prone to follow; and in the editor’s sanctum, where the dainty feet of the muses do not often deign to tread.”

ButMr.Carleton does not need to apologize. He has the true poetic instinct. His descriptions are vivid, and as a narrative versifier he has been excelled by few, if indeed any depicter of Western farm life.

Will Carleton has also written considerable prose, which has been collected and published in book form, but it is his poetical works which have entitled him to public esteem, and it is for these that he will be longest remembered in literature.

BETSY AND I AREOUT.¹

DRAW up the papers, lawyer, and make ’em good and stout,For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are out,—We who have worked together so long as man and wifeMust pull in single harness the rest of our nat’ral life.“What is the matter,” says you? I swan it’s hard to tell!Most of the years behind us we’ve passed by very well;I have no other woman—she has no other man;Only we’ve lived together as long as ever we can.So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;And we’ve agreed together that we can never agree;Not that we’ve catched each other in any terrible crime;We’ve been a gatherin’ this for years, a little at a time.There was a stock of temper we both had for a start;Although we ne’er suspected ’twould take us two apart;I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone,And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own.The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed,Was somethin’ concerning heaven—a difference in our creed;We arg’ed the thing at breakfast—we arg’ed the thing at tea—And the more we arg’ed the question, the more we couldn’t agree.And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow;She had kicked the bucket, for certain—the question was only—How?I held my opinion, and Betsy another had;And when we were done a talkin’, we both of us was mad.And the next that I remember, it started in a joke;But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke.And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl;And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn’t any soul.And so the thing kept workin’, and all the self-same way;Always somethin’ to ar’ge and something sharp to say,—And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o’ dozen strong,And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along.And there have been days together—and many a weary week—When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak;And I have been thinkin’ and thinkin’, the whole of the summer and fall,If I can’t live kind with a woman, why, then I won’t at all.And so I’ve talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;And we have agreed together that we can never agree;And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine;And I’ll put it in the agreement, and take it to her to sign.Write on the paper, lawyer—the very first paragraph—Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half;For she has helped to earn it through many a weary day,And it’s nothin’ more than justice that Betsy has her pay.Give her the house and homestead; a man can thrive and roam,But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home.And I have always determined, and never failed to say,That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken away.There’s a little hard money besides, that’s drawin’ tol’rable pay,A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day,—Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at;Put in another clause there, and give her all of that.I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin’ her so much;Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such;True and fair I married her, when she was blythe and young,And Betsy was always good to me exceptin’ with her tongue.When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps,For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps;And all of ’em was flustered, and fairly taken down,And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town.Once when I had a fever—I won’t forget it soon—I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon—Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight;She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night.And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean,Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen,And I don’t complain of Betsy or any of her acts,Exceptin’ when we’ve quarreled, and told each other facts.So draw up the paper, lawyer; and I’ll go home to-night,And read the agreement to her, and see if it’s all right;And then in the morning I’ll sell to a tradin’ man I know—And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I’ll go.And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn’t occur;That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her,And lay me under the maple we planted years ago,When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so.And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me;And lyin’ together in silence, perhaps we’ll then agree;And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn’t think it queerIf we loved each other the better because we’ve quarreled here.¹From “Farm Ballads.” Copyright 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.

RAW up the papers, lawyer, and make ’em good and stout,

For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are out,—

We who have worked together so long as man and wife

Must pull in single harness the rest of our nat’ral life.

“What is the matter,” says you? I swan it’s hard to tell!

Most of the years behind us we’ve passed by very well;

I have no other woman—she has no other man;

Only we’ve lived together as long as ever we can.

So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;

And we’ve agreed together that we can never agree;

Not that we’ve catched each other in any terrible crime;

We’ve been a gatherin’ this for years, a little at a time.

There was a stock of temper we both had for a start;

Although we ne’er suspected ’twould take us two apart;

I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone,

And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own.

The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed,

Was somethin’ concerning heaven—a difference in our creed;

We arg’ed the thing at breakfast—we arg’ed the thing at tea—

And the more we arg’ed the question, the more we couldn’t agree.

And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow;

She had kicked the bucket, for certain—the question was only—How?

I held my opinion, and Betsy another had;

And when we were done a talkin’, we both of us was mad.

And the next that I remember, it started in a joke;

But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke.

And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl;

And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn’t any soul.

And so the thing kept workin’, and all the self-same way;

Always somethin’ to ar’ge and something sharp to say,—

And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o’ dozen strong,

And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along.

And there have been days together—and many a weary week—

When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak;

And I have been thinkin’ and thinkin’, the whole of the summer and fall,

If I can’t live kind with a woman, why, then I won’t at all.

And so I’ve talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;

And we have agreed together that we can never agree;

And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine;

And I’ll put it in the agreement, and take it to her to sign.

Write on the paper, lawyer—the very first paragraph—

Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half;

For she has helped to earn it through many a weary day,

And it’s nothin’ more than justice that Betsy has her pay.

Give her the house and homestead; a man can thrive and roam,

But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home.

And I have always determined, and never failed to say,

That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken away.

There’s a little hard money besides, that’s drawin’ tol’rable pay,

A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day,—

Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at;

Put in another clause there, and give her all of that.

I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin’ her so much;

Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such;

True and fair I married her, when she was blythe and young,

And Betsy was always good to me exceptin’ with her tongue.

When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps,

For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps;

And all of ’em was flustered, and fairly taken down,

And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town.

Once when I had a fever—I won’t forget it soon—

I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon—

Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight;

She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night.

And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean,

Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen,

And I don’t complain of Betsy or any of her acts,

Exceptin’ when we’ve quarreled, and told each other facts.

So draw up the paper, lawyer; and I’ll go home to-night,

And read the agreement to her, and see if it’s all right;

And then in the morning I’ll sell to a tradin’ man I know—

And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I’ll go.

And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn’t occur;

That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her,

And lay me under the maple we planted years ago,

When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so.

And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me;

And lyin’ together in silence, perhaps we’ll then agree;

And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn’t think it queer

If we loved each other the better because we’ve quarreled here.

¹From “Farm Ballads.” Copyright 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.

GONE WITH A HANDSOMERMAN.¹

(FROM “FARM BALLADS.”)

John.I’VE worked in the field all day, a plowin’ the “stony streak;”I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse; I’ve tramped till my legs are weak;I’ve choked a dozen swears, (so’s not to tell Jane fibs,)When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles punched my ribs.I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats;I’ve fed ’em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats;And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ feel,And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a meal.Well said! the door is locked! out here she’s left the key,Under the step, in a place known only to her and me;I wonder who’s dyin’ or dead, that she’s hustled off pell-mell;But here on the table’s a note, and probably this will tell.Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone astray!The letter it says, “Good-bye, for I’m a going away;I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I’ve been true;But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man than you.”A han’somer man than me! Why, that ain’t much to say;There’s han’somer men than me go past here every day.There’s han’somer men than me—I ain’t of the han’some kind;But aloven’erman than I was, I guess she’ll never find.Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings!May the words of love I’ve spoken be changed to scorpion stings!Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt,And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart’s blood out!Curse her! curse her! say I, she’ll some time rue this day;She’ll some time learn that hate is a game that two can play;And long before she dies she’ll grieve she ever was born,And I’ll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn.As sure as the world goes on, there’ll come a time when sheWill read the devilish heart of that han’somer man than me;And there’ll be a time when he will find, as others do,That she who is false to one, can be the same with two.And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow dim,And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him,She’ll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count the cost;And then she’ll see things clear, and know what she has lost.And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind,And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind;And maybe she’ll sometimes long for me—for me—but no!I’ve blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so.And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin’ or other she hadThat fastened a man to her, and wasn’t entirely bad;And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn’t last;But I mustn’t think of these things—I’ve buried ’em in the past.I’ll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter worse;She’ll have trouble enough; she shall not have my curse;But I’ll live a life so square—and I well know that I can,—That she always will sorry be that she went with that han’somer man.Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my poor eyes blur;It seems when I look at that, as if ’twas holdin’ her.And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat,And yonder’s her weddin’ gown; I wonder she didn’t take that.’Twas only this mornin’ she came and called me her “dearest dear,”And said I was makin’ for her a regular paradise here;O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell,Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a spell!Good-bye! I wish that death had severed us two apart.You’ve lost a worshiper here, you’ve crushed a lovin’ heart.I’ll worship no woman again; but I guess I’ll learn to pray,And kneel asyouused to kneel, before you run away.And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven to bear,And if I thought I had some little influence there,I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so,As happy and gay as I was a half-hour ago.Jane(entering).Why, John, what a litter here! you’ve thrown things all around!Come, what’s the matter now? and what have you lost or found?And here’s my father here, a waiting for supper, too;I’ve been a riding with him—he’s that “handsomer man than you.”Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John.Why, John, you look so strange! come, what has crossed your track?I was only a joking, you know; I’m willing to take it back.John(aside).Well, now, if thisain’ta joke, with rather a bitter cream!It seems as if I’d woke from a mighty ticklish dream;And I think she “smells a rat,” for she smiles at me so queer,I hope she don’t; good gracious! I hope that they didn’t hear!’Twas one of her practical drives—she thought I’d understand!But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.But one thing’s settled with me—to appreciate heaven well,’Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell.¹Copyright, 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.

John.

’VE worked in the field all day, a plowin’ the “stony streak;”

I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse; I’ve tramped till my legs are weak;

I’ve choked a dozen swears, (so’s not to tell Jane fibs,)

When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles punched my ribs.

I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats;

I’ve fed ’em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats;

And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ feel,

And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a meal.

Well said! the door is locked! out here she’s left the key,

Under the step, in a place known only to her and me;

I wonder who’s dyin’ or dead, that she’s hustled off pell-mell;

But here on the table’s a note, and probably this will tell.

Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone astray!

The letter it says, “Good-bye, for I’m a going away;

I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I’ve been true;

But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man than you.”

A han’somer man than me! Why, that ain’t much to say;

There’s han’somer men than me go past here every day.

There’s han’somer men than me—I ain’t of the han’some kind;

But aloven’erman than I was, I guess she’ll never find.

Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings!

May the words of love I’ve spoken be changed to scorpion stings!

Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt,

And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart’s blood out!

Curse her! curse her! say I, she’ll some time rue this day;

She’ll some time learn that hate is a game that two can play;

And long before she dies she’ll grieve she ever was born,

And I’ll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn.

As sure as the world goes on, there’ll come a time when she

Will read the devilish heart of that han’somer man than me;

And there’ll be a time when he will find, as others do,

That she who is false to one, can be the same with two.

And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow dim,

And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him,

She’ll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count the cost;

And then she’ll see things clear, and know what she has lost.

And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind,

And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind;

And maybe she’ll sometimes long for me—for me—but no!

I’ve blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so.

And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin’ or other she had

That fastened a man to her, and wasn’t entirely bad;

And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn’t last;

But I mustn’t think of these things—I’ve buried ’em in the past.

I’ll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter worse;

She’ll have trouble enough; she shall not have my curse;

But I’ll live a life so square—and I well know that I can,—

That she always will sorry be that she went with that han’somer man.

Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my poor eyes blur;

It seems when I look at that, as if ’twas holdin’ her.

And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat,

And yonder’s her weddin’ gown; I wonder she didn’t take that.

’Twas only this mornin’ she came and called me her “dearest dear,”

And said I was makin’ for her a regular paradise here;

O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell,

Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a spell!

Good-bye! I wish that death had severed us two apart.

You’ve lost a worshiper here, you’ve crushed a lovin’ heart.

I’ll worship no woman again; but I guess I’ll learn to pray,

And kneel asyouused to kneel, before you run away.

And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven to bear,

And if I thought I had some little influence there,

I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so,

As happy and gay as I was a half-hour ago.

Jane(entering).

Why, John, what a litter here! you’ve thrown things all around!

Come, what’s the matter now? and what have you lost or found?

And here’s my father here, a waiting for supper, too;

I’ve been a riding with him—he’s that “handsomer man than you.”

Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,

And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John.

Why, John, you look so strange! come, what has crossed your track?

I was only a joking, you know; I’m willing to take it back.

John(aside).

Well, now, if thisain’ta joke, with rather a bitter cream!

It seems as if I’d woke from a mighty ticklish dream;

And I think she “smells a rat,” for she smiles at me so queer,

I hope she don’t; good gracious! I hope that they didn’t hear!

’Twas one of her practical drives—she thought I’d understand!

But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.

But one thing’s settled with me—to appreciate heaven well,

’Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell.

¹Copyright, 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.

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(‡ decoration)JOAQUIN MILLER.“THE POET OF THE SIERRAS.”IN the year 1851, a farmer moved from the Wabash district in Indiana to the wilder regions of Oregon. In his family was a rude, untaught boy of ten or twelve years, bearing the unusual name of Cincinnatus Hiner Miller. This boy worked with his father on the farm until he was about fifteen years of age, when he abandoned the family log-cabin in the Willamette Valley of his Oregon home to try♦his fortune as a gold miner.♦‘this’ replaced with ‘his’A more daring attempt was seldom if ever undertaken by a fifteen year old youth. It was during the most desperate period of Western history, just after the report of the discovery of gold had caused the greatest rush to the Pacific slope. A miscellaneous and turbulent population swarmed over the country; and, “armed to the teeth” prospected upon streams and mountains. The lawless, reckless life of these gold-hunters—millionaires to-day and beggars to-morrow—deeming it a virtue rather than a crime to have taken life in a brawl—was, at once, novel, picturesque and dramatic.—Such conditions furnished great possibilities for a poet or novelist.—It was an era as replete with a reality of thrilling excitement as that furnished by the history and mythology of ancient Greece to the earlier♦Greek poets.♦‘Greeks’ replaced with ‘Greek’It was into this whirlpool that the young, untaught—but observant and daring—farmer lad threw himself, and when its whirl was not giddy and fast enough for him, or palled upon his more exacting taste for excitement and daring adventure, he left it after a few months, and sought deeper and more desperate wilds. With Walker he became a filibuster and went into Nicaragua.—He became in turn an astrologer; a Spanishvaquero, and, joining the wild Indians, was made a Sachem.For five years he followed these adventurous wanderings; then as suddenly as he had entered the life he deserted it, and, in 1860 the prodigal returned home to his father’s cabin in Oregon. In his right arm he carried a bullet, in his right thigh another, and on many parts of his body were the scars left by Indian arrows. Shortly after returning home he begun the study of law and was admitted to practice within a few months in Lane County, Oregon; but the gold fever or spirit of adventure took possession of him again and in 1861 we find him in the gold mines of Idaho; but the yellow metal did not come into his “Pan” sufficiently fast and he gave it up to become an express messenger in the mining district. A few months later he was back in Oregon where he started a Democratic Newspaperat Eugene City which he ran long enough to get acquainted with a poetical contributor, Miss Minnie Myrtle, whom he married in 1862—in his usual short-order way of doing things—after an acquaintance of three days. Where “Joaquin” Miller—for he was now called “Joaquin” after a Spanish brigand whom he had defended—got his education is a mystery; but through the years of wandering, even in boyhood, he was a rhymester and his verses now began to come fast in the columns of his paper.JOAQUIN MILLER’S STUDY, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA.In 1862, after his marriage he resumed the practice of law, and, in 1866, at the age of twenty-five, was elected Judge of Grant County. This position he held for four years during which time he wrote much poetry. One day with his usual “suddenness” he abandoned his wife and his country and sailed for London to seek a publisher. At first he was unsuccessful, and had to print a small volume privately. This introduced him to the friendship of English writers and his “Songs of the Sierras” was issued in 1871. Naturally these poems were faulty in style and called forth strong adverse criticism; but the tales they told were glowing and passionate, and the wild and adventurous life they described was a new revelation in the world of song, and, verily, whatever the austere critic said, “The common people heard him gladly” and his success became certain. Thus encouraged Miller returned to California, visited the tropics and collected material for another work which he publishedin London in 1873 entitled “Sunland Songs.” Succeeding, the “Songs of the Desert” appeared in 1875; “Songs of Italy” 1878; “Songs of the Mexican Seas” 1887. Later he has published “With Walker in Nicaragua” and he is also author of a play called “The Danites,” and of several prose works relating to life in the West among which are “The Danites in the Sierras,” “Shadows of Shasta” and ’49, or “The Gold-seekers of the Sierras.”The chief excellencies of Miller’s works are his gorgeous pictures of the gigantic scenery of the Western mountains. In this sense he is a true poet. As compared with Bret Harte, while Miller has the finer poetic perception of the two, he does not possess the dramatic power nor the literary skill of Harte; nor does he seem to recognize the native generosity and noble qualities which lie hidden beneath the vicious lives of outlaws, as the latter reveals it in his writings. After all the question arises which is the nearer the truth? Harte is about the same age as Miller, lived among the camps at about the same time, but he was not, to use a rough expression, “one of the gang,” was not so pronouncedly “on the inside” as was his brother poet. He never dug in the mines, he was not a filibuster, nor an Indian Sachem. All these and more Miller was, and perhaps he is nearer the plumb line of truth in his delineations after all.Mr.Miller’s home is on the bluffs overlooking the San Francisco Bay in sight of the Golden Gate. In July, 1897, he joined the gold seekers in the Klondike regions of Alaska.THOUGHTS OF MY WESTERN HOME.WRITTEN IN ATHENS.SIERRAS, and eternal tentsOf snow that flashed o’er battlementsOf mountains! My land of the sun,Am I not true? have I not doneAll things for thine, for thee alone,O sun-land, sea-land, thou mine own?From other loves and other lands,As true, perhaps, as strong of hands,Have I not turned to thee and thine,O sun-land of the palm and pine,And sung thy scenes, surpassing skies,Till Europe lifted up her faceAnd marveled at thy matchless grace,With eager and inquiring eyes?Be my reward some little placeTo pitch my tent, some tree and vineWhere I may sit above the sea,And drink the sun as drinking wine,And dream, or sing some songs of thee;Or days to climb to Shasta’s domeAgain, and be with gods at home,Salute my mountains—clouded Hood,Saint Helen’s in its sea of wood—Where sweeps the Oregon, and whereWhite storms are in the feathered fir.MOUNT SHASTA.TO lord all Godland! lift the browFamiliar to the noon,—to topThe universal world,—to propThe hollow heavens up,—to vowStern constancy with stars,—to keepEternal ward while♦eons sleep;To tower calmly up and touchGod’s purple garment—hems that sweepThe cold blue north! Oh, this were much!Where storm-born shadows hide and huntI knew thee in my glorious youth,I loved thy vast face, white as truth,I stood where thunderbolts were wontTo smite thy Titan-fashioned front,And heard rent mountains rock and roll.I saw thy lightning’s gleaming rodReach forth and write on heaven’s scrollThe awful autograph of God!♦‘cons’ replaced with ‘eons’KIT CARSON’S RIDE.RUN? Now you bet you; I rather guess so.But he’s blind as a badger. Whoa, Paché boy, whoa!No, you wouldn’t think so to look at his eyes,But he is badger blind, and it happened this wise;—We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels,Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride.“Forty full miles if a foot to ride,Forty full miles if a foot and the devilsOf red Camanches are hot on the trackWhen once they strike it. Let the sun go downSoon, very soon,” muttered bearded old RevelsAs he peered at the sun, lying low on his back,Holding fast to his lasso; then he jerked at his steed,And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around,And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground,—Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride,While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud,His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud,And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed,—“Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed,And speed, if ever for life you would speed;And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride,For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire,And feet of wild horses, hard flying beforeI hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore;While the buffalo come like the surge of the sea,Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us threeAs a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire.”We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein,Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again,And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer,Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold,Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold,And gold-mounted Colts, true companions for years,Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breathAnd so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse.Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall,Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low callOf love-note or courage, but on o’er the plainSo steady and still, leaning low to the mane,With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein,Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray nose and nose,Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced wind blows,Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer,There was work to be done, there was death in the air,And the chance was as one to a thousand for all.Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustangStretched neck and stretched nerve till the hollow earth rangAnd the foam from the flank and the croup and the neckFlew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck.Twenty miles! thirty miles—a dim distant speck—Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in sight.And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight.I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right,But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulderAnd saw his horse stagger; I saw his head droopingHard on his breast, and his naked breast stoopingLow down to the mane as so swifter and bolderRan reaching out for us the red-footed fire.To right and to left the black buffalo came,In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair,With their beards to the dust and black tails in the air.As a terrible surf on a red sea of flameRushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher,And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull,The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane fullOf smoke and of dust, and it shook with desireOf battle, with rage and with bellowings loudAnd unearthly and up through its lowering cloudCame the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire,While his keen crooked horns through the storm of his maneLike black lances lifted and lifted again;And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through,And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two.I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and shoulderSank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs;And up through the black blowing veil of her hairDid beam full in mine her two marvelous eyesWith a longing and love, yet look of despair,And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her,And flames reaching far for her glorious hair.Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fellTo and fro and unsteady, and all the neck’s swellDid subside and recede, and the nerves fell as dead.Then she saw that my own steed still lorded his headWith a look of delight, for this Paché, you see,Was her father’s and once at the South SantafeeHad won a whole herd, sweeping everything downIn a race where the world came to run for the crown;And so when I won the true heart of my bride,—My neighbor’s and deadliest enemy’s child,And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe,—She brought me this steed to the border the nightShe met Revels and me in her perilous flight,From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos side;And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled,As if jesting, that I, and I only, should rideThe fleet-footed Paché, so if kin should pursueI should surely escape without other adoThan to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side,And await her,—and wait till the next hollow moonHung her horn in the palms, when surely and soonAnd swift she would join me, and all would be wellWithout bloodshed or word. And now as she fellFrom the front, and went down in the ocean of fire,The last that I saw was a look of delightThat I should escape,—a love,—a desire,—Yet never a word, not a look of appeal.—Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heelOne instant for her in my terrible flight.Then the rushing of fire rose around me and under,And the howling of beast like the sound of thunder,—Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over,As the passionate flame reached around them and wove herHands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died,—Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan,As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone,And into the Brazos I rode all alone—All alone, save only a horse long-limbed,And blind and bare and burnt to the skin.Then just as the terrible sea came inAnd tumbled its thousands hot into the tide,Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmedIn eddies, we struck on the opposite side.“Sell Paché—blind Paché? Now, mister! look here!You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheerMany days, many days, on this rugged frontier,”For the ways they were rough and Comanches were near;“But you’d better pack up, sir! That tent is too smallFor us two after this! Has an old mountaineer,Do you book-men believe, get no tum-tum at all?Sell Paché! You buy him! a bag full of gold!You show him! Tell of him the tale I have told!Why he bore me through fire, and is blind and is old!... Now pack up your papers, and get up and spinTo them cities you tell of.... Blast you and your tin!”JOAQUIN MILLER’S ALASKA LETTER.As a specimen of this author’s prose writing and style, we present the following extract from a syndicate letter clipped from the “Philadelphia Inquirer.”Head of Lake Bennett, Alaska, August 2, 1897.IWRITE by the bank of what is already a big river, and at the fountain head of the mighty Yukon, the second if not the first of American rivers. We have crossed the summit, passed the terrible Chilkoot Pass and Crater Lake and Long Lake and Lideman Lake, and now I sit down to tell the story of the past, while the man who is to take me up the river six hundred miles to the Klondike rows his big scow, full of cattle, brought from Seattle.THE BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF CHILKOOT PASS.All the pictures that had been painted by word, all on easel, or even in imagination of Napoleon and his men climbing up the Alps, are but childish playthings in comparison with the grandeur of Chilkoot Pass. Starting up the steep ascent, we raised a shout and it ran the long, steep and tortuous line that reached from a bluff above us, and over and up till it lost itself in the clouds. And down to us from the clouds, the shout and cry of exultation of those brave conquerers came back, and only died away when the distance made it possible to be heard no longer. And now we began to ascend.It was not so hard as it seemed. The stupendous granite mountain, the home of the avalanche and the father of glaciers, melted away before us as we ascended, and in a single hour of brisk climbing we stood against the summit or rather between the big granite blocks that marked the summit. As I said before, the path is not so formidable as it looked, and it is not half so formidable as represented, but mark you, it is no boy’s play, no man’s play. It is a man’s and a big strong man’s honest work, and takes strength of body and nerve of soul.Right in the path and within ten feet of a snow bank that has not perished for a thousand years, I picked and ate a little strawberry, and as I rested and roamed about a bit, looking down into the brightly blue lake that made the head waters of the Yukon, I gathered a little sun flower, a wild hyacinth and a wild tea blossom for my buttonhole.

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“THE POET OF THE SIERRAS.”

IN the year 1851, a farmer moved from the Wabash district in Indiana to the wilder regions of Oregon. In his family was a rude, untaught boy of ten or twelve years, bearing the unusual name of Cincinnatus Hiner Miller. This boy worked with his father on the farm until he was about fifteen years of age, when he abandoned the family log-cabin in the Willamette Valley of his Oregon home to try♦his fortune as a gold miner.

♦‘this’ replaced with ‘his’

A more daring attempt was seldom if ever undertaken by a fifteen year old youth. It was during the most desperate period of Western history, just after the report of the discovery of gold had caused the greatest rush to the Pacific slope. A miscellaneous and turbulent population swarmed over the country; and, “armed to the teeth” prospected upon streams and mountains. The lawless, reckless life of these gold-hunters—millionaires to-day and beggars to-morrow—deeming it a virtue rather than a crime to have taken life in a brawl—was, at once, novel, picturesque and dramatic.—Such conditions furnished great possibilities for a poet or novelist.—It was an era as replete with a reality of thrilling excitement as that furnished by the history and mythology of ancient Greece to the earlier♦Greek poets.

♦‘Greeks’ replaced with ‘Greek’

It was into this whirlpool that the young, untaught—but observant and daring—farmer lad threw himself, and when its whirl was not giddy and fast enough for him, or palled upon his more exacting taste for excitement and daring adventure, he left it after a few months, and sought deeper and more desperate wilds. With Walker he became a filibuster and went into Nicaragua.—He became in turn an astrologer; a Spanishvaquero, and, joining the wild Indians, was made a Sachem.

For five years he followed these adventurous wanderings; then as suddenly as he had entered the life he deserted it, and, in 1860 the prodigal returned home to his father’s cabin in Oregon. In his right arm he carried a bullet, in his right thigh another, and on many parts of his body were the scars left by Indian arrows. Shortly after returning home he begun the study of law and was admitted to practice within a few months in Lane County, Oregon; but the gold fever or spirit of adventure took possession of him again and in 1861 we find him in the gold mines of Idaho; but the yellow metal did not come into his “Pan” sufficiently fast and he gave it up to become an express messenger in the mining district. A few months later he was back in Oregon where he started a Democratic Newspaperat Eugene City which he ran long enough to get acquainted with a poetical contributor, Miss Minnie Myrtle, whom he married in 1862—in his usual short-order way of doing things—after an acquaintance of three days. Where “Joaquin” Miller—for he was now called “Joaquin” after a Spanish brigand whom he had defended—got his education is a mystery; but through the years of wandering, even in boyhood, he was a rhymester and his verses now began to come fast in the columns of his paper.

JOAQUIN MILLER’S STUDY, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA.

In 1862, after his marriage he resumed the practice of law, and, in 1866, at the age of twenty-five, was elected Judge of Grant County. This position he held for four years during which time he wrote much poetry. One day with his usual “suddenness” he abandoned his wife and his country and sailed for London to seek a publisher. At first he was unsuccessful, and had to print a small volume privately. This introduced him to the friendship of English writers and his “Songs of the Sierras” was issued in 1871. Naturally these poems were faulty in style and called forth strong adverse criticism; but the tales they told were glowing and passionate, and the wild and adventurous life they described was a new revelation in the world of song, and, verily, whatever the austere critic said, “The common people heard him gladly” and his success became certain. Thus encouraged Miller returned to California, visited the tropics and collected material for another work which he publishedin London in 1873 entitled “Sunland Songs.” Succeeding, the “Songs of the Desert” appeared in 1875; “Songs of Italy” 1878; “Songs of the Mexican Seas” 1887. Later he has published “With Walker in Nicaragua” and he is also author of a play called “The Danites,” and of several prose works relating to life in the West among which are “The Danites in the Sierras,” “Shadows of Shasta” and ’49, or “The Gold-seekers of the Sierras.”

The chief excellencies of Miller’s works are his gorgeous pictures of the gigantic scenery of the Western mountains. In this sense he is a true poet. As compared with Bret Harte, while Miller has the finer poetic perception of the two, he does not possess the dramatic power nor the literary skill of Harte; nor does he seem to recognize the native generosity and noble qualities which lie hidden beneath the vicious lives of outlaws, as the latter reveals it in his writings. After all the question arises which is the nearer the truth? Harte is about the same age as Miller, lived among the camps at about the same time, but he was not, to use a rough expression, “one of the gang,” was not so pronouncedly “on the inside” as was his brother poet. He never dug in the mines, he was not a filibuster, nor an Indian Sachem. All these and more Miller was, and perhaps he is nearer the plumb line of truth in his delineations after all.

Mr.Miller’s home is on the bluffs overlooking the San Francisco Bay in sight of the Golden Gate. In July, 1897, he joined the gold seekers in the Klondike regions of Alaska.

THOUGHTS OF MY WESTERN HOME.

WRITTEN IN ATHENS.

SIERRAS, and eternal tentsOf snow that flashed o’er battlementsOf mountains! My land of the sun,Am I not true? have I not doneAll things for thine, for thee alone,O sun-land, sea-land, thou mine own?From other loves and other lands,As true, perhaps, as strong of hands,Have I not turned to thee and thine,O sun-land of the palm and pine,And sung thy scenes, surpassing skies,Till Europe lifted up her faceAnd marveled at thy matchless grace,With eager and inquiring eyes?Be my reward some little placeTo pitch my tent, some tree and vineWhere I may sit above the sea,And drink the sun as drinking wine,And dream, or sing some songs of thee;Or days to climb to Shasta’s domeAgain, and be with gods at home,Salute my mountains—clouded Hood,Saint Helen’s in its sea of wood—Where sweeps the Oregon, and whereWhite storms are in the feathered fir.

IERRAS, and eternal tents

Of snow that flashed o’er battlements

Of mountains! My land of the sun,

Am I not true? have I not done

All things for thine, for thee alone,

O sun-land, sea-land, thou mine own?

From other loves and other lands,

As true, perhaps, as strong of hands,

Have I not turned to thee and thine,

O sun-land of the palm and pine,

And sung thy scenes, surpassing skies,

Till Europe lifted up her face

And marveled at thy matchless grace,

With eager and inquiring eyes?

Be my reward some little place

To pitch my tent, some tree and vine

Where I may sit above the sea,

And drink the sun as drinking wine,

And dream, or sing some songs of thee;

Or days to climb to Shasta’s dome

Again, and be with gods at home,

Salute my mountains—clouded Hood,

Saint Helen’s in its sea of wood—

Where sweeps the Oregon, and where

White storms are in the feathered fir.

MOUNT SHASTA.

TO lord all Godland! lift the browFamiliar to the noon,—to topThe universal world,—to propThe hollow heavens up,—to vowStern constancy with stars,—to keepEternal ward while♦eons sleep;To tower calmly up and touchGod’s purple garment—hems that sweepThe cold blue north! Oh, this were much!Where storm-born shadows hide and huntI knew thee in my glorious youth,I loved thy vast face, white as truth,I stood where thunderbolts were wontTo smite thy Titan-fashioned front,And heard rent mountains rock and roll.I saw thy lightning’s gleaming rodReach forth and write on heaven’s scrollThe awful autograph of God!♦‘cons’ replaced with ‘eons’

O lord all Godland! lift the brow

Familiar to the noon,—to top

The universal world,—to prop

The hollow heavens up,—to vow

Stern constancy with stars,—to keep

Eternal ward while♦eons sleep;

To tower calmly up and touch

God’s purple garment—hems that sweep

The cold blue north! Oh, this were much!

Where storm-born shadows hide and hunt

I knew thee in my glorious youth,

I loved thy vast face, white as truth,

I stood where thunderbolts were wont

To smite thy Titan-fashioned front,

And heard rent mountains rock and roll.

I saw thy lightning’s gleaming rod

Reach forth and write on heaven’s scroll

The awful autograph of God!

♦‘cons’ replaced with ‘eons’

KIT CARSON’S RIDE.

RUN? Now you bet you; I rather guess so.But he’s blind as a badger. Whoa, Paché boy, whoa!No, you wouldn’t think so to look at his eyes,But he is badger blind, and it happened this wise;—We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels,Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride.“Forty full miles if a foot to ride,Forty full miles if a foot and the devilsOf red Camanches are hot on the trackWhen once they strike it. Let the sun go downSoon, very soon,” muttered bearded old RevelsAs he peered at the sun, lying low on his back,Holding fast to his lasso; then he jerked at his steed,And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around,And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground,—Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride,While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud,His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud,And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed,—“Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed,And speed, if ever for life you would speed;And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride,For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire,And feet of wild horses, hard flying beforeI hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore;While the buffalo come like the surge of the sea,Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us threeAs a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire.”We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein,Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again,And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer,Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold,Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold,And gold-mounted Colts, true companions for years,Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breathAnd so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse.Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall,Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low callOf love-note or courage, but on o’er the plainSo steady and still, leaning low to the mane,With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein,Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray nose and nose,Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced wind blows,Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer,There was work to be done, there was death in the air,And the chance was as one to a thousand for all.Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustangStretched neck and stretched nerve till the hollow earth rangAnd the foam from the flank and the croup and the neckFlew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck.Twenty miles! thirty miles—a dim distant speck—Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in sight.And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight.I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right,But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulderAnd saw his horse stagger; I saw his head droopingHard on his breast, and his naked breast stoopingLow down to the mane as so swifter and bolderRan reaching out for us the red-footed fire.To right and to left the black buffalo came,In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair,With their beards to the dust and black tails in the air.As a terrible surf on a red sea of flameRushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher,And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull,The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane fullOf smoke and of dust, and it shook with desireOf battle, with rage and with bellowings loudAnd unearthly and up through its lowering cloudCame the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire,While his keen crooked horns through the storm of his maneLike black lances lifted and lifted again;And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through,And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two.I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and shoulderSank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs;And up through the black blowing veil of her hairDid beam full in mine her two marvelous eyesWith a longing and love, yet look of despair,And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her,And flames reaching far for her glorious hair.Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fellTo and fro and unsteady, and all the neck’s swellDid subside and recede, and the nerves fell as dead.Then she saw that my own steed still lorded his headWith a look of delight, for this Paché, you see,Was her father’s and once at the South SantafeeHad won a whole herd, sweeping everything downIn a race where the world came to run for the crown;And so when I won the true heart of my bride,—My neighbor’s and deadliest enemy’s child,And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe,—She brought me this steed to the border the nightShe met Revels and me in her perilous flight,From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos side;And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled,As if jesting, that I, and I only, should rideThe fleet-footed Paché, so if kin should pursueI should surely escape without other adoThan to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side,And await her,—and wait till the next hollow moonHung her horn in the palms, when surely and soonAnd swift she would join me, and all would be wellWithout bloodshed or word. And now as she fellFrom the front, and went down in the ocean of fire,The last that I saw was a look of delightThat I should escape,—a love,—a desire,—Yet never a word, not a look of appeal.—Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heelOne instant for her in my terrible flight.Then the rushing of fire rose around me and under,And the howling of beast like the sound of thunder,—Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over,As the passionate flame reached around them and wove herHands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died,—Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan,As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone,And into the Brazos I rode all alone—All alone, save only a horse long-limbed,And blind and bare and burnt to the skin.Then just as the terrible sea came inAnd tumbled its thousands hot into the tide,Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmedIn eddies, we struck on the opposite side.“Sell Paché—blind Paché? Now, mister! look here!You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheerMany days, many days, on this rugged frontier,”For the ways they were rough and Comanches were near;“But you’d better pack up, sir! That tent is too smallFor us two after this! Has an old mountaineer,Do you book-men believe, get no tum-tum at all?Sell Paché! You buy him! a bag full of gold!You show him! Tell of him the tale I have told!Why he bore me through fire, and is blind and is old!... Now pack up your papers, and get up and spinTo them cities you tell of.... Blast you and your tin!”

UN? Now you bet you; I rather guess so.

But he’s blind as a badger. Whoa, Paché boy, whoa!

No, you wouldn’t think so to look at his eyes,

But he is badger blind, and it happened this wise;—

We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels,

Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride.

“Forty full miles if a foot to ride,

Forty full miles if a foot and the devils

Of red Camanches are hot on the track

When once they strike it. Let the sun go down

Soon, very soon,” muttered bearded old Revels

As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back,

Holding fast to his lasso; then he jerked at his steed,

And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around,

And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground,—

Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride,

While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud,

His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud,

And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed,—

“Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed,

And speed, if ever for life you would speed;

And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride,

For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire,

And feet of wild horses, hard flying before

I hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore;

While the buffalo come like the surge of the sea,

Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three

As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire.”

We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein,

Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again,

And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer,

Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold,

Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold,

And gold-mounted Colts, true companions for years,

Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breath

And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse.

Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall,

Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low call

Of love-note or courage, but on o’er the plain

So steady and still, leaning low to the mane,

With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein,

Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray nose and nose,

Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced wind blows,

Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer,

There was work to be done, there was death in the air,

And the chance was as one to a thousand for all.

Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang

Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the hollow earth rang

And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck

Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck.

Twenty miles! thirty miles—a dim distant speck—

Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in sight.

And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight.

I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right,

But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulder

And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping

Hard on his breast, and his naked breast stooping

Low down to the mane as so swifter and bolder

Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire.

To right and to left the black buffalo came,

In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair,

With their beards to the dust and black tails in the air.

As a terrible surf on a red sea of flame

Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher,

And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull,

The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full

Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire

Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud

And unearthly and up through its lowering cloud

Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire,

While his keen crooked horns through the storm of his mane

Like black lances lifted and lifted again;

And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through,

And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two.

I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and shoulder

Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs;

And up through the black blowing veil of her hair

Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes

With a longing and love, yet look of despair,

And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her,

And flames reaching far for her glorious hair.

Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell

To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck’s swell

Did subside and recede, and the nerves fell as dead.

Then she saw that my own steed still lorded his head

With a look of delight, for this Paché, you see,

Was her father’s and once at the South Santafee

Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything down

In a race where the world came to run for the crown;

And so when I won the true heart of my bride,—

My neighbor’s and deadliest enemy’s child,

And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe,—

She brought me this steed to the border the night

She met Revels and me in her perilous flight,

From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos side;

And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled,

As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride

The fleet-footed Paché, so if kin should pursue

I should surely escape without other ado

Than to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side,

And await her,—and wait till the next hollow moon

Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon

And swift she would join me, and all would be well

Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell

From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire,

The last that I saw was a look of delight

That I should escape,—a love,—a desire,—

Yet never a word, not a look of appeal.—

Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel

One instant for her in my terrible flight.

Then the rushing of fire rose around me and under,

And the howling of beast like the sound of thunder,—

Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over,

As the passionate flame reached around them and wove her

Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died,—

Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan,

As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone,

And into the Brazos I rode all alone—

All alone, save only a horse long-limbed,

And blind and bare and burnt to the skin.

Then just as the terrible sea came in

And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide,

Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed

In eddies, we struck on the opposite side.

“Sell Paché—blind Paché? Now, mister! look here!

You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer

Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier,”

For the ways they were rough and Comanches were near;

“But you’d better pack up, sir! That tent is too small

For us two after this! Has an old mountaineer,

Do you book-men believe, get no tum-tum at all?

Sell Paché! You buy him! a bag full of gold!

You show him! Tell of him the tale I have told!

Why he bore me through fire, and is blind and is old!

... Now pack up your papers, and get up and spin

To them cities you tell of.... Blast you and your tin!”

JOAQUIN MILLER’S ALASKA LETTER.

As a specimen of this author’s prose writing and style, we present the following extract from a syndicate letter clipped from the “Philadelphia Inquirer.”

Head of Lake Bennett, Alaska, August 2, 1897.IWRITE by the bank of what is already a big river, and at the fountain head of the mighty Yukon, the second if not the first of American rivers. We have crossed the summit, passed the terrible Chilkoot Pass and Crater Lake and Long Lake and Lideman Lake, and now I sit down to tell the story of the past, while the man who is to take me up the river six hundred miles to the Klondike rows his big scow, full of cattle, brought from Seattle.THE BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF CHILKOOT PASS.All the pictures that had been painted by word, all on easel, or even in imagination of Napoleon and his men climbing up the Alps, are but childish playthings in comparison with the grandeur of Chilkoot Pass. Starting up the steep ascent, we raised a shout and it ran the long, steep and tortuous line that reached from a bluff above us, and over and up till it lost itself in the clouds. And down to us from the clouds, the shout and cry of exultation of those brave conquerers came back, and only died away when the distance made it possible to be heard no longer. And now we began to ascend.It was not so hard as it seemed. The stupendous granite mountain, the home of the avalanche and the father of glaciers, melted away before us as we ascended, and in a single hour of brisk climbing we stood against the summit or rather between the big granite blocks that marked the summit. As I said before, the path is not so formidable as it looked, and it is not half so formidable as represented, but mark you, it is no boy’s play, no man’s play. It is a man’s and a big strong man’s honest work, and takes strength of body and nerve of soul.Right in the path and within ten feet of a snow bank that has not perished for a thousand years, I picked and ate a little strawberry, and as I rested and roamed about a bit, looking down into the brightly blue lake that made the head waters of the Yukon, I gathered a little sun flower, a wild hyacinth and a wild tea blossom for my buttonhole.

Head of Lake Bennett, Alaska, August 2, 1897.

IWRITE by the bank of what is already a big river, and at the fountain head of the mighty Yukon, the second if not the first of American rivers. We have crossed the summit, passed the terrible Chilkoot Pass and Crater Lake and Long Lake and Lideman Lake, and now I sit down to tell the story of the past, while the man who is to take me up the river six hundred miles to the Klondike rows his big scow, full of cattle, brought from Seattle.

THE BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF CHILKOOT PASS.

All the pictures that had been painted by word, all on easel, or even in imagination of Napoleon and his men climbing up the Alps, are but childish playthings in comparison with the grandeur of Chilkoot Pass. Starting up the steep ascent, we raised a shout and it ran the long, steep and tortuous line that reached from a bluff above us, and over and up till it lost itself in the clouds. And down to us from the clouds, the shout and cry of exultation of those brave conquerers came back, and only died away when the distance made it possible to be heard no longer. And now we began to ascend.

It was not so hard as it seemed. The stupendous granite mountain, the home of the avalanche and the father of glaciers, melted away before us as we ascended, and in a single hour of brisk climbing we stood against the summit or rather between the big granite blocks that marked the summit. As I said before, the path is not so formidable as it looked, and it is not half so formidable as represented, but mark you, it is no boy’s play, no man’s play. It is a man’s and a big strong man’s honest work, and takes strength of body and nerve of soul.

Right in the path and within ten feet of a snow bank that has not perished for a thousand years, I picked and ate a little strawberry, and as I rested and roamed about a bit, looking down into the brightly blue lake that made the head waters of the Yukon, I gathered a little sun flower, a wild hyacinth and a wild tea blossom for my buttonhole.

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