"Well, dog my cats! Say, stranger,You must have travelled far!Just flood your lower levelAnd light a fresh cigar.Don't tell me in this weather!You hoofed it all the way?Well, slice my liver lengthwise!Why, stranger, what's to pay?"Huntin' yer wife, you tell me:Well, now dog-gone my skin!She thought you dead and buriedAnd then bestowed her tinUpon another fellow!Just put it here, old pard!Some fellows strike the soft things,But you have hit it hard."I'm right onto your feelin's,I know how it would be,If my own shrub slopped overAnd got away from me.Say, stranger; that old sage hen,That's cookin' thar inside,Is warranted the finest wool,And just a square yard wide."I wouldn't hurt yer, pardner,But I tellyou, no manWas ever blessed as I amWith that old pelican.It's goin' on some two yearSince she was j'ined to me,She was a widder prior,Her name was Sophy Lee—"Good God! Old man, what's happened?Her? She? Is that the one?That's her? Your wife, you tell me?Now reach down fer yer gun,I never injured no man,And no man me, but squealed,And any one who takes herMust do it d—d well heeled!"Listen? Surely. CertainlyI'll let you look at her.Peek through the door, she's in thar,Is that your furnitur'?Speak, man, quick! You're mistaken!No! Yours! You recognizeMy wife, your wife the same one?The man who says so, lies!"Don't mind what I say, pardner,I'm not much on the gush,But this thing comes down on meLike fours upon a flush.If that's your wife—hold—steady!That bottle. Now, my coat,She'll think me dead as you were.My pipe. Thar. I'm afloat."But let me leave a message.No; tell her that I died,No, no; not that way, either,Just tell her that I cried.It don't rain much. Now, pardner,Be to her what I've been.Or by the God that hates you,You'll see me back again!"F. Bret Harte.
"Well, dog my cats! Say, stranger,You must have travelled far!Just flood your lower levelAnd light a fresh cigar.Don't tell me in this weather!You hoofed it all the way?Well, slice my liver lengthwise!Why, stranger, what's to pay?"Huntin' yer wife, you tell me:Well, now dog-gone my skin!She thought you dead and buriedAnd then bestowed her tinUpon another fellow!Just put it here, old pard!Some fellows strike the soft things,But you have hit it hard."I'm right onto your feelin's,I know how it would be,If my own shrub slopped overAnd got away from me.Say, stranger; that old sage hen,That's cookin' thar inside,Is warranted the finest wool,And just a square yard wide."I wouldn't hurt yer, pardner,But I tellyou, no manWas ever blessed as I amWith that old pelican.It's goin' on some two yearSince she was j'ined to me,She was a widder prior,Her name was Sophy Lee—"Good God! Old man, what's happened?Her? She? Is that the one?That's her? Your wife, you tell me?Now reach down fer yer gun,I never injured no man,And no man me, but squealed,And any one who takes herMust do it d—d well heeled!"Listen? Surely. CertainlyI'll let you look at her.Peek through the door, she's in thar,Is that your furnitur'?Speak, man, quick! You're mistaken!No! Yours! You recognizeMy wife, your wife the same one?The man who says so, lies!"Don't mind what I say, pardner,I'm not much on the gush,But this thing comes down on meLike fours upon a flush.If that's your wife—hold—steady!That bottle. Now, my coat,She'll think me dead as you were.My pipe. Thar. I'm afloat."But let me leave a message.No; tell her that I died,No, no; not that way, either,Just tell her that I cried.It don't rain much. Now, pardner,Be to her what I've been.Or by the God that hates you,You'll see me back again!"F. Bret Harte.
"Well, dog my cats! Say, stranger,You must have travelled far!Just flood your lower levelAnd light a fresh cigar.Don't tell me in this weather!You hoofed it all the way?Well, slice my liver lengthwise!Why, stranger, what's to pay?
"Huntin' yer wife, you tell me:Well, now dog-gone my skin!She thought you dead and buriedAnd then bestowed her tinUpon another fellow!Just put it here, old pard!Some fellows strike the soft things,But you have hit it hard.
"I'm right onto your feelin's,I know how it would be,If my own shrub slopped overAnd got away from me.Say, stranger; that old sage hen,That's cookin' thar inside,Is warranted the finest wool,And just a square yard wide.
"I wouldn't hurt yer, pardner,But I tellyou, no manWas ever blessed as I amWith that old pelican.It's goin' on some two yearSince she was j'ined to me,She was a widder prior,Her name was Sophy Lee—
"Good God! Old man, what's happened?Her? She? Is that the one?That's her? Your wife, you tell me?Now reach down fer yer gun,I never injured no man,And no man me, but squealed,And any one who takes herMust do it d—d well heeled!
"Listen? Surely. CertainlyI'll let you look at her.Peek through the door, she's in thar,Is that your furnitur'?Speak, man, quick! You're mistaken!No! Yours! You recognizeMy wife, your wife the same one?The man who says so, lies!
"Don't mind what I say, pardner,I'm not much on the gush,But this thing comes down on meLike fours upon a flush.If that's your wife—hold—steady!That bottle. Now, my coat,She'll think me dead as you were.My pipe. Thar. I'm afloat.
"But let me leave a message.No; tell her that I died,No, no; not that way, either,Just tell her that I cried.It don't rain much. Now, pardner,Be to her what I've been.Or by the God that hates you,You'll see me back again!"
F. Bret Harte.