CHAPTER XII
OCCASIONAL VERSE
BOSTON (After Bret Harte)
On the south fork of Yuba, in May, fifty-two,
An old cabin stood on the hill,
Where the road to Grass Valley lay clear to the view,
And a ditch that ran down to Buck's Mill.
It was owned by a party that lately had come
To discover what fate held in store;
He was working for Brigham, and prospecting some,
While the clothes were well cut that he wore.
He had spruced up the cabin, and by it would stay,
For he never could bear a hotel.
He refused to drink whiskey or poker to play,
But was jolly and used the boys well.
In the long winter evenings he started a club,
To discuss the affairs of the day.
He was up in the classics a scholarly cub
And the best of the talkers could lay.
He could sing like a robin, and play on the flute,
And he opened a school, which was free,
Where he taught all the musical fellows to toot,
Or to join in an anthem or glee.
So he soon "held the age" over any young man
Who had ever been known on the bar;
And the boys put him through, when for sheriff he ran,
And his stock now was much above par.
In the spring he was lucky, and struck a rich lead,
And he let all his friends have a share;
It was called the New Boston, for that was his breed,
And the rock that he showed them was rare.