[103]AT PENNYWEIGHT FLAT.

[101][Illustration: Old man smoking a pipe]AT BUMMER’S CREEK.

AT BUMMER’S CREEK.

[102]Fer Dave an’ me, we never knooThe rights of any sect,Or ’ow these different pads cris-crossed,And things in that respect;Or, if we’d heer’d it years afore,We didn’t ricollect.I don’t say as I’d lift my ’at,And cringe, and beg, and crave,Nor don’t want them to speechifyAbout no soul ter save;But there’s the dust! if they’ll pint outWhich track was took by Dave.[Decoration: Horse-powered mining][103]AT PENNYWEIGHT FLAT.“Doyou have any luck at the diggins?” I saidTo a dryblower grizzled andgrey—“Does the nebulous fossicker’s star ever shedOn your shaker, one flickering ray?Does Dame Fortune e’er toddle your way?”But he deigned not a look nor an answer—notthen—And I felt most decidedly hurt,And I marked, as he leaned o’er the hopper again,To examine the rubble and dirt,He had sugar-bag sleeves to his shirt.Oh, his boot soles were tied to the uppers with string,And his beard swept his chest like a mat,And I noted his eyes were as clear as theSpring—(That is, Springtime at PennyweightFlat)—He had corks, also, strung to his hat.But I flushed to the hair, as he tossed in his handA large slug, from the gravel he mined,And a midwinter smile I did not understandLit his weatherworn dial and lined,As he carelessly toyed with his find.[104]Then I hurried across to congratulate Dad,(Oh the slug! and its wondrous gold-red!)And I spoke of the marvellous fortune he had,When he wakened that sprite from itsbed—“Pshaw! A fly-speck—a fly-speck!”—he said.And he sighed as he spoke, and his eyes gathered damp(Ah, the depth of the pathos they wore!)“I have plenty like that sowed away in the camp,And because you’re true grit to the coreYou may have the durned thing for a ‘score’!”Quick I dived for my purse, and I counted the coin,Ere I greedily gathered myprize—Then our hands were as hands of old friends, when they joinAnd our eyes met as brotherlyeyes—Oh, we wept, as we mingled good-byes!“What’s it worth? What’s it worth?” to the banker I cried,As I came through the door at a run,And I brushed seven customers waiting aside,And the banker chap calmly begun,“I should say about nine pounds a ton.”

[102]Fer Dave an’ me, we never knooThe rights of any sect,Or ’ow these different pads cris-crossed,And things in that respect;Or, if we’d heer’d it years afore,We didn’t ricollect.

[102]Fer Dave an’ me, we never knoo

The rights of any sect,

Or ’ow these different pads cris-crossed,

And things in that respect;

Or, if we’d heer’d it years afore,

We didn’t ricollect.

I don’t say as I’d lift my ’at,And cringe, and beg, and crave,Nor don’t want them to speechifyAbout no soul ter save;But there’s the dust! if they’ll pint outWhich track was took by Dave.

I don’t say as I’d lift my ’at,

And cringe, and beg, and crave,

Nor don’t want them to speechify

About no soul ter save;

But there’s the dust! if they’ll pint out

Which track was took by Dave.

[Decoration: Horse-powered mining]

“Doyou have any luck at the diggins?” I saidTo a dryblower grizzled andgrey—“Does the nebulous fossicker’s star ever shedOn your shaker, one flickering ray?Does Dame Fortune e’er toddle your way?”But he deigned not a look nor an answer—notthen—And I felt most decidedly hurt,And I marked, as he leaned o’er the hopper again,To examine the rubble and dirt,He had sugar-bag sleeves to his shirt.Oh, his boot soles were tied to the uppers with string,And his beard swept his chest like a mat,And I noted his eyes were as clear as theSpring—(That is, Springtime at PennyweightFlat)—He had corks, also, strung to his hat.But I flushed to the hair, as he tossed in his handA large slug, from the gravel he mined,And a midwinter smile I did not understandLit his weatherworn dial and lined,As he carelessly toyed with his find.[104]Then I hurried across to congratulate Dad,(Oh the slug! and its wondrous gold-red!)And I spoke of the marvellous fortune he had,When he wakened that sprite from itsbed—“Pshaw! A fly-speck—a fly-speck!”—he said.And he sighed as he spoke, and his eyes gathered damp(Ah, the depth of the pathos they wore!)“I have plenty like that sowed away in the camp,And because you’re true grit to the coreYou may have the durned thing for a ‘score’!”Quick I dived for my purse, and I counted the coin,Ere I greedily gathered myprize—Then our hands were as hands of old friends, when they joinAnd our eyes met as brotherlyeyes—Oh, we wept, as we mingled good-byes!“What’s it worth? What’s it worth?” to the banker I cried,As I came through the door at a run,And I brushed seven customers waiting aside,And the banker chap calmly begun,“I should say about nine pounds a ton.”

“Doyou have any luck at the diggins?” I said

To a dryblower grizzled andgrey—

“Does the nebulous fossicker’s star ever shed

On your shaker, one flickering ray?

Does Dame Fortune e’er toddle your way?”

But he deigned not a look nor an answer—notthen—And I felt most decidedly hurt,And I marked, as he leaned o’er the hopper again,To examine the rubble and dirt,He had sugar-bag sleeves to his shirt.

But he deigned not a look nor an answer—notthen—

And I felt most decidedly hurt,

And I marked, as he leaned o’er the hopper again,

To examine the rubble and dirt,

He had sugar-bag sleeves to his shirt.

Oh, his boot soles were tied to the uppers with string,And his beard swept his chest like a mat,And I noted his eyes were as clear as theSpring—(That is, Springtime at PennyweightFlat)—He had corks, also, strung to his hat.

Oh, his boot soles were tied to the uppers with string,

And his beard swept his chest like a mat,

And I noted his eyes were as clear as theSpring—

(That is, Springtime at PennyweightFlat)—

He had corks, also, strung to his hat.

But I flushed to the hair, as he tossed in his handA large slug, from the gravel he mined,And a midwinter smile I did not understandLit his weatherworn dial and lined,As he carelessly toyed with his find.

But I flushed to the hair, as he tossed in his hand

A large slug, from the gravel he mined,

And a midwinter smile I did not understand

Lit his weatherworn dial and lined,

As he carelessly toyed with his find.

[104]Then I hurried across to congratulate Dad,(Oh the slug! and its wondrous gold-red!)And I spoke of the marvellous fortune he had,When he wakened that sprite from itsbed—“Pshaw! A fly-speck—a fly-speck!”—he said.

[104]Then I hurried across to congratulate Dad,

(Oh the slug! and its wondrous gold-red!)

And I spoke of the marvellous fortune he had,

When he wakened that sprite from itsbed—

“Pshaw! A fly-speck—a fly-speck!”—he said.

And he sighed as he spoke, and his eyes gathered damp(Ah, the depth of the pathos they wore!)“I have plenty like that sowed away in the camp,And because you’re true grit to the coreYou may have the durned thing for a ‘score’!”

And he sighed as he spoke, and his eyes gathered damp

(Ah, the depth of the pathos they wore!)

“I have plenty like that sowed away in the camp,

And because you’re true grit to the core

You may have the durned thing for a ‘score’!”

Quick I dived for my purse, and I counted the coin,Ere I greedily gathered myprize—Then our hands were as hands of old friends, when they joinAnd our eyes met as brotherlyeyes—Oh, we wept, as we mingled good-byes!

Quick I dived for my purse, and I counted the coin,

Ere I greedily gathered myprize—

Then our hands were as hands of old friends, when they join

And our eyes met as brotherlyeyes—

Oh, we wept, as we mingled good-byes!

“What’s it worth? What’s it worth?” to the banker I cried,As I came through the door at a run,And I brushed seven customers waiting aside,And the banker chap calmly begun,“I should say about nine pounds a ton.”

“What’s it worth? What’s it worth?” to the banker I cried,

As I came through the door at a run,

And I brushed seven customers waiting aside,

And the banker chap calmly begun,

“I should say about nine pounds a ton.”

Back to Index Next