REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES
We hev tumbled ez dust
Or ez worms of the yearth;
Wot we looked for hez bust!
We are objects of mirth!
They have played us—old Pards of the river!—they hev played us for
all we was worth!
Was it euchre or draw
Cut us off in our bloom?
Was it faro, whose law
Is uncertain ez doom?
Or an innocent "Jack pot" that—opened—was to us ez the jaws of the
tomb?
It was nary! It kem
With some sharps from the States.
Ez folks sez, "All things kem
To the fellers ez waits;"
And we'd waited six months for that suthin'—had me and Bill Nye—in
such straits!
And it kem. It was small;
It was dream-like and weak;
It wore store clothes—that's all
That we knew, so to speak;
But it called itself "Billson, Thought-Reader"—which ain't half a
name for its cheek!
He could read wot you thought,
And he knew wot you did;
He could find things untaught,
No matter whar hid;
And he went to it, blindfold and smiling, being led by the hand like
a kid!
Then I glanced at Bill Nye,
And I sez, without pride,
"You'll excuse US. We've nigh
On to nothin' to hide;
But if some gent will lend us a twenty, we'll hide it whar folks
shall decide."
It was Billson's own self
Who forked over the gold,
With a smile. "Thar's the pelf,"
He remarked. "I make bold
To advance it, and go twenty better that I'll find it without being
told."
Then I passed it to Nye,
Who repassed it to me.
And we bandaged each eye
Of that Billson—ez we
Softly dropped that coin in his coat pocket, ez the hull crowd
around us could see.
That was all. He'd one hand
Locked in mine. Then he groped.
We could not understand
Why that minit Nye sloped,
For we knew we'd the dead thing on Billson—even more than we
dreamed of or hoped.
For he stood thar in doubt
With his hand to his head;
Then he turned, and lit out
Through the door where Nye fled,
Draggin' me and the rest of us arter, while we larfed till we
thought we was dead,
Till he overtook Nye
And went through him. Words fail
For what follers! Kin I
Paint our agonized wail
Ez he drew from Nye's pocket that twenty wot we sworn was in his own
coat-tail!
And it WAS! But, when found,
It proved bogus and brass!
And the question goes round
How the thing kem to pass?
Or, if PASSED, woz it passed thar by William; and I listens, and
echoes "Alas!
"For the days when the skill
Of the keerds was no blind,
When no effort of will
Could beat four of a kind,
When the thing wot you held in your hand, Pard, was worth more than
the thing in your mind."
THE SPELLING BEE AT ANGELS
(REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES)
Waltz in, waltz in, ye little kids, and gather round my knee,
And drop them books and first pot-hooks, and hear a yarn from me.
I kin not sling a fairy tale of Jinnys* fierce and wild,
For I hold it is unchristian to deceive a simple child;
But as from school yer driftin' by, I thowt ye'd like to hear
Of a "Spelling Bee" at Angels that we organized last year.
It warn't made up of gentle kids, of pretty kids, like you,
But gents ez hed their reg'lar growth, and some enough for two.
There woz Lanky Jim of Sutter's Fork and Bilson of Lagrange,
And "Pistol Bob," who wore that day a knife by way of change.
You start, you little kids, you think these are not pretty names,
But each had a man behind it, and—my name is Truthful James.
There was Poker Dick from Whisky Flat, and Smith of Shooter's Bend,
And Brown of Calaveras—which I want no better friend;
Three-fingered Jack—yes, pretty dears, three fingers—YOU have five.
Clapp cut off two—it's sing'lar, too, that Clapp ain't now alive.
'Twas very wrong indeed, my dears, and Clapp was much to blame;
Likewise was Jack, in after-years, for shootin' of that same.
The nights was kinder lengthenin' out, the rains had jest begun,
When all the camp came up to Pete's to have their usual fun;
But we all sot kinder sad-like around the bar-room stove
Till Smith got up, permiskiss-like, and this remark he hove:
"Thar's a new game down in Frisco, that ez far ez I can see
Beats euchre, poker, and van-toon, they calls the 'Spellin' Bee.'"
Then Brown of Calaveras simply hitched his chair and spake,
"Poker is good enough for me," and Lanky Jim sez, "Shake!"
And Bob allowed he warn't proud, but he "must say right thar
That the man who tackled euchre hed his education squar."
This brought up Lenny Fairchild, the schoolmaster, who said
He knew the game, and he would give instructions on that head.
"For instance, take some simple word," sez he, "like 'separate:'
Now who can spell it?" Dog my skin, ef thar was one in eight.
This set the boys all wild at once. The chairs was put in row,
And at the head was Lanky Jim, and at the foot was Joe,
And high upon the bar itself the schoolmaster was raised,
And the bar-keep put his glasses down, and sat and silent gazed.
The first word out was "parallel," and seven let it be,
Till Joe waltzed in his "double l" betwixt the "a" and "e;"
For since he drilled them Mexicans in San Jacinto's fight
Thar warn't no prouder man got up than Pistol Joe that night—
Till "rhythm" came! He tried to smile, then said "they had him
there,"
And Lanky Jim, with one long stride, got up and took his chair.
O little kids, my pretty kids, 'twas touchin' to survey
These bearded men, with weppings on, like schoolboys at their play.
They'd laugh with glee, and shout to see each other lead the van,
And Bob sat up as monitor with a cue for a rattan,
Till the Chair gave out "incinerate," and Brown said he'd be durned
If any such blamed word as that in school was ever learned.
When "phthisis" came they all sprang up, and vowed the man who rung
Another blamed Greek word on them be taken out and hung.
As they sat down again I saw in Bilson's eye a flash,
And Brown of Calaveras was a-twistin' his mustache,
And when at last Brown slipped on "gneiss," and Bilson took his chair,
He dropped some casual words about some folks who dyed their hair.
And then the Chair grew very white, and the Chair said he'd adjourn,
But Poker Dick remarked that HE would wait and get his turn;
Then with a tremblin' voice and hand, and with a wanderin' eye,
The Chair next offered "eider-duck," and Dick began with "I",
And Bilson smiled—then Bilson shrieked! Just how the fight begun
I never knowed, for Bilson dropped, and Dick, he moved up one.
Then certain gents arose and said "they'd business down in camp,"
And "ez the road was rather dark, and ez the night was damp,
They'd"—here got up Three-fingered Jack and locked the door and
yelled:
"No, not one mother's son goes out till that thar word is spelled!"
But while the words were on his lips, he groaned and sank in pain,
And sank with Webster on his chest and Worcester on his brain.
Below the bar dodged Poker Dick, and tried to look ez he
Was huntin' up authorities thet no one else could see;
And Brown got down behind the stove, allowin' he "was cold,"
Till it upsot and down his legs the cinders freely rolled,
And several gents called "Order!" till in his simple way
Poor Smith began with "O-r"—"Or"—and he was dragged away.
O little kids, my pretty kids, down on your knees and pray!
You've got your eddication in a peaceful sort of way;
And bear in mind thar may be sharps ez slings their spellin' square,
But likewise slings their bowie-knives without a thought or care.
You wants to know the rest, my dears? Thet's all! In me you see
The only gent that lived to tell about the Spellin' Bee!
———
He ceased and passed, that truthful man; the children went their way
With downcast heads and downcast hearts—but not to sport or play.
For when at eve the lamps were lit, and supperless to bed
Each child was sent, with tasks undone and lessons all unsaid,
No man might know the awful woe that thrilled their youthful frames,
As they dreamed of Angels Spelling Bee and thought of Truthful James.
* Qy. Genii.
ARTEMIS IN SIERRA
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Poet. Philosopher. Jones of Mariposa.
POET
Halt! Here we are. Now wheel your mare a trifle
Just where you stand; then doff your hat and swear
Never yet was scene you might cover with your rifle
Half as complete or as marvelously fair.
PHILOSOPHER
Dropped from Olympus or lifted out of Tempe,
Swung like a censer betwixt the earth and sky!
He who in Greece sang of flocks and flax and hemp,—he
Here might recall them—six thousand feet on high!
POET
Well you may say so. The clamor of the river,
Hum of base toil, and man's ignoble strife,
Halt far below, where the stifling sunbeams quiver,
But never climb to this purer, higher life!
Not to this glade, where Jones of Mariposa,
Simple and meek as his flocks we're looking at,
Tends his soft charge; nor where his daughter Rosa—
(A shot.)
Hallo! What's that?
PHILOSOPHER
A—something thro' my hat—
Bullet, I think. You were speaking of his daughter?
POET
Yes; but—your hat you were moving through the leaves;
Likely he thought it some eagle bent on slaughter.
Lightly he shoots— (A second shot.)
PHILOSOPHER
As one readily perceives.
Still, he improves! This time YOUR hat has got it,
Quite near the band! Eh? Oh, just as you please—
Stop, or go on.
POET
Perhaps we'd better trot it
Down through the hollow, and up among the trees.
BOTH
Trot, trot, trot, where the bullets cannot follow;
Trot down and up again among the laurel trees.
PHILOSOPHER
Thanks, that is better; now of this shot-dispensing
Jones and his girl—you were saying—
POET
Well, you see—
I—hang it all!—Oh! what's the use of fencing!
Sir, I confess it!—these shots were meant for ME.
PHILOSOPHER
Are you mad!
POET
God knows, I shouldn't wonder!
I love this coy nymph, who, coldly—as yon peak
Shines on the river it feeds, yet keeps asunder—
Long have I worshiped, but never dared to speak.
Till she, no doubt, her love no longer hiding,
Waked by some chance word her father's jealousy;
Slips her disdain—as an avalanche down gliding
Sweeps flocks and kin away—to clear a path for ME.
Hence his attack.
PHILOSOPHER
I see. What I admire
Chiefly, I think, in your idyl, so to speak,
Is the cool modesty that checks your youthful fire,—
Absence of self-love and abstinence of cheek!
Still, I might mention, I've met the gentle Rosa,—
Danced with her thrice, to her father's jealous dread;
And, it is possible, she's happened to disclose a—
Ahem! You can fancy why he shoots at ME instead.
POET
YOU?
PHILOSOPHER
Me. But kindly take your hand from your revolver,
I am not choleric—but accidents may chance.
And here's the father, who alone can be the solver
Of this twin riddle of the hat and the romance.
Enter JONES OF MARIPOSA.
POET
Speak, shepherd—mine!
PHILOSOPHER
Hail! Time-and-cartridge waster,
Aimless exploder of theories and skill!
Whom do you shoot?
JONES OF MARIPOSA
Well, shootin' ain't my taste, or
EF I shoot anything—I only shoot to kill.
That ain't what's up. I only kem to tell ye—
Sportin' or courtin'—trot homeward for your life!
Gals will be gals, and p'r'aps it's just ez well ye
Larned there was one had no wish to be—a wife.
POET
What?
PHILOSOPHER
Is this true?
JONES OF MARIPOSA
I reckon it looks like it.
She saw ye comin'. My gun was standin' by;
She made a grab, and 'fore I up could strike it,
Blazed at ye both! The critter is SO shy!
POET
Who?
JONES OF MARIPOSA
My darter!
PHILOSOPHER
Rosa?
JONES OF MARIPOSA
Same! Good-by!