Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve, Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.
But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see,— Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.
Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,"— And he went for that heathen Chinee. In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand, But the floor it was strewed, Like the leaves on the strand, With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding In the game "he did not understand."
In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four jacks,— Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts. And we found on his nails, which were taper,— What is frequent in tapers,—that's wax.
Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar,— Which the same I am free to maintain.
BRET HARTE.
A PLANTATION DITTY.
De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top: "Who—who—is—you-oo?" En I say: "Good Lawd, hit's des po' me, En I ain't quite ready fer de Jasper Sea; I'm po' en sinful, en you 'lowed I'd be; Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror!"
De gray owl sing fum de cypress tree: "Who—who—is—you-oo?" En I say: "Good Lawd, ef you look you'll see Hit ain't nobody but des po' me, En I like ter stay 'twell my time is free; Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror!"
FRANK LEBBY STANTON.