Till the wild beast in my nature was raging in the den—
With no one now to quell it, and I wrote a letter then
Full of hissing things, and heated with so hot a heat of hate
That my pen flashed out black lightning at a most terrific rate.
I wrote that "she had wronged me when she went away from me—
Though to see her dying mother 'twas her father's victory,
And a woman that could waver when her husband's pride was rent
Was no longer worthy of it." And I shut the house and went.
To tell of my long exile would be of little good—
Though I couldn't half-way tell it, and I wouldn't if I could!
I could tell of California—of a wild and vicious life;
Of trackless plains, and mountains, and the Indian's
scalping-knife.
I could tell of gloomy forests howling wild with threats of
death;
I could tell of fiery deserts that have scorched me with their
breath;
I could tell of wretched outcasts by the hundreds, great and
small,
And could claim the nasty honor of the greatest of them all.
I could tell of toil and hardship; and of sickness and disease,
And hollow-eyed starvation, but I tell you, friend, that these
Are trifles in comparison with what a fellow feels
With that bloodhound, Remorsefulness, forever at his heels.
I remember—worn and weary of the long, long years of care,
When the frost of time was making early harvest of my hair—
I remember, wrecked and hopeless of a rest beneath the sky,
My resolve to quit the country, and to seek the East, and die.
I remember my long journey, like a dull, oppressive dream,
Across the empty prairies till I caught the distant gleam
Of a city in the beauty of its broad and shining stream
On whose bosom, flocked together, float the mighty swans of
steam.
I remember drifting with them till I found myself again
In the rush and roar and rattle of the engine and the train;
And when from my surroundings something spoke of child and wife,
It seemed the train was rumbling through a tunnel in my life.
Then I remember something—like a sudden burst of light—
That don't exactly tell it, but I couldn't tell it right—
A something clinging to me with its arms around my neck—
A little girl, for instance—or an angel, I expect—
For she kissed me, cried and called me "her dear papa," and I
felt
My heart was pure virgin gold, and just about to melt—
And so it did—it melted in a mist of gleaming rain
When she took my hand and whispered, "My mama's on the train."