R k10S: IITVD S?fc ^AHAIM^ * invwo^ KAUF<>" if |vf5^| |- J C/| i-P* l i *^ ^WflKNtf? %m-s(n^ ^SBttW^ MIBRARYQr ffiirrH * lun.iuK? f But the drum Answered, " Come ! Better there in death united, than in life a recreant. Come ! " Thus they answered, hoping, fearing, Some in faith, and doubting some, Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, Said, " My chosen people, come ! " Then the drum, Lo ! was dumb, For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, " Lord, we come ! " OUR PRIVILEGE NOT ours, where battle smoke upcnrls, And battle dews lie wet, To meet the charge that treason hurls By sword and bayonet. Not ours to guide the fatal scythe The fleshless Reaper wields ; The harvest moon looks calmly down Upon our peaceful fields. The long grass dimples on the hill, The pines sing by the sea, And Plenty, from her golden horn, Is pouring far and free. O brothers by the farther sea ! Think still our faith is warm ; The same bright flag above us waves That swathed our baby form. The same red blood that dyes your fields Here throbs in patriot pride, The blood that flowed when Lander fell, And Baker's crimson tide. And thus apart our hearts keep time With every pulse ye feel, And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime With Valor's clashing steel. BELIEVING GUAED THOMAS STARR KING. OBIIT MARCH 4, 1864 CAME the relief. " What, sentry, ho ! How passed the night through thy long waking ? " Cold, cheerless, dark, as may befit The hour before the dawn is breaking." " No sight ? no sound ? " " No ; nothing save The plover from the marshes calling, And in yon western sky, about An hour ago, a star was falling." " A star ? There 's nothing strange in that," t( No, nothing ; but, above the thicket, Somehow it seemed to me that God Somewhere had just relieved a picket." THE GODDESS CONTRIBUTED TO THE FAIR FOR THE LADIES' PATRIOTIC! FUND OF THE PACIFIC " WHO comes ? " The sentry's warning cry Rings sharply on the evening air : Who comes ? The challenge : no reply, Yet something motions there. A woman, by those graceful folds ; A soldier, by that martial tread : " Advance three paces. Halt ! until Thy name and rank be said." " My name ? Her name, in ancient song, Who fearless from Olympus came : Look on me ! Mortals know me best In battle and in flame." " Enough ! I know that clarion voice ; I know that gleaming eye and helm, Those crimson lips, and in their dew The best blood of the realm. " The young, the brave, the good and wise, Have fallen in thy curst embrace : The juices of the grapes of wrath Still stain thy guilty face. THE GODDESS 15 My brother lies in yonder field, Face downward to the quiet grass : Go back ! he cannot see thee now } But here thou shalt not pass." A crack upon the evening air, A wakened echo from the hill : The watchdog on the distant shore Gives mouth, and all is still. The sentry with his brother lies Face downward on the quiet grass ; And by him, in the pale moonshine, A shadow seems to pass. No lance or warlike shield it bears: A helmet in its pitying hands Brings water from the nearest brook, To meet his last demands. Can this be she of haughty mien, The goddess of the sword and shield ? Ah, yes ! The Grecian poet's myth Sways still each battlefield. For not alone that rugged War Some grace or charm from Beauty gains; But, when the goddess' work is done, The woman's still remains. ON A PEN OF THOMAS STAKE KING THIS is the reed the dead musician dropped, With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden ; The prompt allegro of its music stopped, Its melodies unbidden. But who shall finish the unfinished strain, Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder, And bid the slender barrel breathe again, An organ-pipe of thunder ! His pen ! what humbler memories cling about Its golden curves ! what shapes and laughing graces Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out In smiles and courtly phrases ? The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung ; The word of cheer, with recognition in it ; The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung The golden gift within it. But all in vain the enchanter's wand we wave : No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision : The incantation that its power gave Sleeps with the dead magician. A. SECOND KEVIEW OF THE GRAND AEMY I READ last night of the grand review In Washington's chiefest avenue, TwoJiundred thousand men in blue, I think they said was the number, Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat, The clatter of hoofs in the stony street, The cheers of people who came to greet, And the thousand details that to repeat Would only my verse encumber, Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet, And then to a fitful slumber. When, lo ! in a vision I seemed to stand In the lonely Capitol. On each hand Far stretched the portico, dim and grand Its columns ranged like a martial band Of sheeted spectres, whom some command Had called to a last reviewing. And the streets of the city were white and bare ; No footfall echoed across the square ; But out of the misty midnight air I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear The sound of a far tattooing. Then I held my breath with fear and dread ; For into the square, with a brazen tread, There rode a figure whose stately head 18 NATIONAL O'erlooked the review that morning, That never bowed from its firm-set seat When the living column passed its feet, Yet now rode steadily up the street To the phantom bugle's warning : Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, And there in the moonlight stood revealed A well-known form that in State and field Had led our patriot sires : Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, Afar through the river's fog and damp, That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp, Nor wasted bivouac fires. And I saw a phantom army come, With never a sound of fife or drum, But keeping time to a throbbing hum Of wailing and lamentation : The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, The men whose wasted figures fill The patriot graves of the nation. And there came the nameless dead, the men Who perished in fever swamp and fen, The slowly-starved of the prison pen ; And, marching beside the others, Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight, With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright ; I thought perhaps 't was the pale moonlight - They looked as white as their brothers ! And so all night marched the nation's dead, With never a banner above them spread, A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY 19 Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished ; No mark save the bare uncovered head Of the silent bronze Eeviewer ; With never an arch save the vaulted sky ; With never a flower save those that lie On the distant graves for love could buy No gift that was purer or truer. So all night long swept the strange array, So all night long till the morning gray I watched for one who had passed away, With a reverent awe and wonder, Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line ? And I knew that one who was kin of mine Had come ; and I spake and lo ! that sign Awakened me from my slumber. THE COPPEEHEAD (1864) THERE is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps, Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps, Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air, And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer. There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death, Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree's breath, Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves, There is peace : yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves. Go seek him : he coils in the ooze and the drip, Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip ; But beware the false footstep, the stumble that brings A deadlier lash than the overseer swings. Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread, As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head ; Whether slave or proud planter, who braves that dull crest, Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest ! Then why waste your labors, brave hearts and strong men, In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den ? Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made ; Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapors away, Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play ; And then to your heel can you righteously doom The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom ! A SAOTTAEY MESSAGE LAST night, above the whistling wind, I heard the welcome rain, A fusillade upon the roof, A tattoo on the pane : The keyhole piped ; the chimney-top A warlike trumpet blew ; Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife, A softer voice stole through. " Give thanks, brothers ! "-said the voice, " That He who sent the rains Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew That drips from patriot veins : I 've seen the grass on Eastern graves In brighter verdure rise ; But, oh ! the rain that gave it life Sprang first from human eyes. " I come to wash away no stain Upon your wasted lea ; I raise no banners, save the ones The forest waves to me : Upon the mountain side, where Spring Her farthest picket sets, My reveille awakes a host Of grassy bayonets. " I visit every humble roof ; I piinle with the low* NATIONAL Only upon the highest peaks My blessings fall in snow ; Until, in tricklings of the stream And drainings of the lea, My unspent bounty comes at last To mingle with the sea." And thus all night, above the wind, I heard the welcome rain, A fusillade upon the roof, A tattoo on the pane : The keyhole piped ; the chimney-top A warlike trumpet blew ; But, mingling with these sounds of strife, This hymn of peace stole through. THE OLD MAJOE EXPLAINS (RE-UNION, ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, 12TH MAT, 1871) WELL, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as 1 can come : For the farm is not half planted, and there 's work to do at home ; And my leg is getting troublesome, it laid me up last fall, - And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never found the ball. And then, for an old man like me, it 's not exactly right, This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight. " The Union," that was well enough way up to '66 ; But this " Re-Union," maybe now it 's mixed with politics ? No ? Well, you understand it best ; but then, you see, my lad, I 'm deacon now, and some might think that the example 's bad. And week from next is Conference. . . . You said the twelfth of May ? Why, that 's the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a ! Hot work ; eh, Colonel, was n't it ? Ye mind that narrow front : They called it the " Death-Angle " ! Well, well, my lad, we won't Fight that old battle over now : I only meant to say I really can't engage to come upon the twelfth of May. 24 NATIONAL How's Thompson? What! will he be there? Well, now I want to know ! The first man in the rebel works ! they called him " Swear- ing Joe." A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was ; but then Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead his men. And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy ? ah ! it 's true We buried him at Gettysburg : I mind the spot ; do you ? A little field below the hill, it must be green this May ; Perhaps that 's why the fields about bring him to me to-day. Well, well, excuse me, Colonel ! but there are some things that drop The tail-board out one's feelings ; and the only way 's to stop. So they want to see the old man ; ah, the rascals ! do they, eh? Well, I 've business down in Boston about the twelfth of May. CALIFORNIA'S GKEETING TO SEWAED (1869) WE know him well : no need of praise Or bonfire from the windy hill To light to softer paths and ways The world-worn man we honor still. No need to quote the truths he spoke That burned through years of war and shame, While History carves with surer stroke Across our map his noonday fame. No need to bid him show the scars Of blows dealt by the Scaean gate, Who lived to pass its shattered bars, And see the foe capitulate : Who lived to turn his slower feet Toward the western setting sun, To see his harvest all complete, His dream fulfilled, his duty done, The one flag streaming from the pole, The one faith borne from sea to sea : For such a triumph, and such goal, Poor must our human greeting be. Ah ! rather that the conscious land In simpler ways salute the Man, 26 NATIONAL The tall pines bowing where they stand, The bared head of El Capitan ! The tumult of the waterfalls, Pohono's kerchief in the breeze, The waving from the rocky walls, The stir and rustle of the trees ; Till, lapped in sunset skies of hope, In sunset lands by sunset seas, The Young World's Premier treads the slope Of sunset years in calm and peace. THE AGED STRANGER AN INCIDENT OP THE WAR " I WAS with Grant " the stranger said ; Said the farmer, " Say no more, But rest thee here at my cottage porch, For thy feet are weary and sore." " I was with Grant " the stranger said ; Said the farmer, " Nay, no more, I prithee sit at my frugal hoard, And eat of my humble store. " How fares my hoy, my soldier hoy, Of the old Ninth Army Corps ? I warrant he bore him gallantly In the smoke and the battle's roar ! " "I know him not," said the aged man, " And, as I remarked before, I was with Grant " " Nay, nay, I know," Said the farmer, " say no more : "He fell in battle, I see, alas ! Thou 'dst smooth these tidings o'er, Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, Though it rend my bosom's core. How fell he ? With his face to the foe, Upholding the flag he bore ? 28 NATIONAL Oh, say not that my boy disgraced The uniform that he wore ! " " I cannot tell," said the aged man, " And should have remarked before, That I was with Grant, in Illinois, Some three years before the war." Then the farmer spake him never a word, But beat with his fist full sore That aged man who had worked for Grant Some three years before the war. THE IDYL OF BATTLE HOLLOW (WAR OF THE REBELLION, 1864) No, I won't, thar, now, so ! And it ain't nothin', no ! And thar 's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know ; And it 's " Belle, tell us, do ! " and it 's " Belle, is it true ? " And " Wot 's this yer yarn of the Major and you ? " Till I 'm sick of it all, so I am, but I s'pose Thet is nothin' to you. . . . Well, then, listen ! yer goes J It was after the fight, and around us all night Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight ; And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed, And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed : And I ran out at daybreak, and nothin' was nigh But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky. And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring, But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing, And a bird said " Kerchee ! " as it sat on a tree, As if it was lonesome, and glad to see me ; And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go, When up comes the Major a-canterin' slow. When he saw me he drew in his reins, and then threw On the gate-post his bridle, and what does he do But come down where I sat ; and he lifted his hat, And he says well, thar ain't any need to tell that ; 'T was some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this, Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted a kiss. 30 NATIONAL Then I said (I was mad), " For the water, my lad, You 're too big and must stoop ; for a kiss, it 's as had, You ain't near big enough." And I turned in a huff, When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff, And he says, " You 're a trump ! Take my pistol, don't fear! But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear." Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool, Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool, "When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light From the top of the little stone fence on the right, And I knew 't was a rifle, and back of it all Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall ! Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead ; And I stood still and white, but Lord ! gals, in spite Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright ! Went off true as gospil ! and, strangest of all, It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall ! Thet 's all now, go 'long ! Yes, some folks thinks it 'a wrong, And thar 's some wants to know to what side I belong ; But I says, " Served him right ! " and I go, all my might, In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight ; And as for the Major sho ! gals, don't you know Thet Lord ! thar 's his step in the garden below. CALDWELL OP SPRINGFIELD (NEW JERSEY, 1780) HERE'S the spot. Look around you. Above on the height Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall, You may dig anywhere and you '11 turn up a ball. Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow, Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. Nothing more, did I say ? Stay one moment v you 've heard Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word Down at Springfield ? What, no ? Come that 's bad ; why, he had All the Jerseys aflame ! And they gave him the name Of the " rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge, For he loved the Lord God and he hated King George ! He had cause, you might say ! When the Hessians that day Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way At the " farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms, Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew But God and that one of the hireling crew Who fired the shot ! Enough ! there she lay, And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away ! 32 NATIONAL Did he preach did he pray ? Think of him as you stand By the old church to-day, think of him and his band Of militant ploughboys ! See the smoke and the heat Of that reckless advance, of that straggling retreat ! Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view And what could you, what should you, what would you do ? Why, just what he did ! They were left in the lurch For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church, JBroke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load At their feet ! Then above all the shouting and shots Bang his voice : " Put Watts into 'em ! Boys, give 'em Watts ! And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow, Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. You may dig anywhere and you '11 turn up a ball Bnt not always a hero like this and that 's all. POEM DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALL FORNIA'S ADMISSION INTO THE UNION, SEPTEMBER 9^ 1864 WE meet in peace, though from our native East The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast Glanced as he rose on fields whose dews were red With darker tints than those Aurora spread. Though shorn his rays, his welcome disk concealed In the dim smoke that veiled each battlefield, Still striving upward, in meridian pride, He climbed the walls that East and West divide, Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand, And sapphire seas that lave the Western land. Strange was the contrast that such scenes disclose From his high vantage o'er eternal snows ; There War's alarm the brazen trumpet rings Here his love-song the mailed cicala sings ; There bayonets glitter through the forest glades Here yellow cornfields stack their peaceful blades ; There the deep trench where Valor finds a grave Here the long ditch that curbs the peaceful wave ; There the bold sapper with his lighted train Here the dark tunnel and its stores of gain ; Here the full harvest and the wain's advance There the Grim Eeaper and the ambulance. With scenes so adverse, what mysterious bond Links our fair fortunes to the shores beyond ? 34 NATIONAL Why come we here last of a scattered fold To pour new metal in the broken mould ? To yield our tribute, stamped with Csesar's face, To Caesar, stricken in the market-place ? Ah ! love of country is the secret tie That joins these contrasts 'neath one arching sky 5 Though brighter paths our peaceful steps explore, We meet together at the Nation's door. War winds her horn, and giant cliffs go down Like the high walls that girt the sacred town, And bares the pathway to her throbbing heart, From clustered village and from crowded mart. Part of God's providence it was to found A Nation's bulwark on this chosen ground ; Not Jesuit's zeal nor pioneer's unrest Planted these pickets in the distant West, But He who first the Nation's fate forecast Placed here His fountains sealed for ages past, Rock-ribbed and guarded till the coming time Should fit the people for their work sublime ; When a new Moses with his rod of steel Smote the tall cliffs with one wide-ringing peal, And the old miracle in record told To the new Nation was revealed in gold. Judge not too idly that our toils are mean, Though no new levies marshal on our green ; Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small, Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall. See, where thick vapor wreathes the battle-line ; There Mercy follows with her oil and wine ; Or where brown Labor with its peaceful charm Stiffens the sinews of the Nation's arm. ANNIVERSARY POEM 35 What nerves its hands to strike a deadlier blow And hurl its legions on the rebel foe ? Lo ! for each town new rising o'er our State See the foe's hamlet waste and desolate, While each new factory lifts its chimney tall, Like a fresh mortar trained on Kichmond's wall. For this, brothers, swings the fruitful vine, Spread our broad pastures with their countless kine i For this o'erhead the arching vault springs clear, Sunlit and cloudless for one half the year ; For this no snowflake, e'er so lightly pressed, Chills the warm impulse of our mother's breast. Quick to reply, from meadows brown and sere, She thrills responsive to Spring's earliest tear ; Breaks into biossom, flings her loveliest rose Ere the white crocus mounts Atlantic snows ; And the example of her liberal creed Teaches the lesson that to-day we heed. Thus ours the lot with peaceful, generous hand To spread our bounty o'er the suffering land ; As the deep cleft in Mariposa's wall Hurls a vast river splintering in its fall, Though the rapt soul who stands in awe below Sees but the arching of the promised bow, Lo ! the far streamlet drinks its dews unseen, And the whole valley wakes a brighter green. MISS BLANCHE SAYS AND you are the poet, and so you want Something what is it ? a theme, a fancy ? Something or other the Muse won't grant To your old poetical necromancy ; Why, one half you poets you can't deny Don't know the Muse when you chance to meet her ; But sit in your attics and mope and sigh For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky, When flesh and blood may be standing by Quite at your service, should you but greet her. What if I told you my own romance ? Women are poets, if you so take them, One third poet, the rest what chance Of man and marriage may choose to make them. Give me ten minutes before you go, Here at the window we '11 sit together, Watching the currents that ebb and flow ; Watching the world as it drifts below Up the hot Avenue's dusty glow : Is n't it pleasant, this bright June weather ? Well, it was after the war broke out, And I was a schoolgirl fresh from Paris ; Papa had contracts, and roamed about, And I did nothing for I was an heiress. Picked some lint, now I think ; perhaps Knitted some stockings a dozen nearly ; MISS BLANCHE SAYS 37 Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps ; Stood at fair-tables and peddled traps Quite at a profit. The " shoulder-straps " Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you ! really ? Still it was stupid. Eata-tat-tat ! Those were the sounds of that battle summer, Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat, And every footfall the tap of a drummer ; And day by day down the Avenue went Cavalry, infantry, all together, Till my pitying angel one day sent My fate in the shape of a regiment, That halted, just as the day was spent, Here at our door in the bright June weather. None of your dandy warriors they, Men from the West, but where I know not ; Haggard and travel-stained, worn and gray, With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot: And I opened the window, and, leaning there, I felt in their presence the free winds blowing. My neck and shoulders and arms were bare, I did not dream they might think me fair, But I had some flowers that night in my hair, And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing. And I looked from the window along the line, Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn, Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine, And a dark face shone from the darkening column, And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair, Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together, And the next I found myself standing there With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair, 4 IS35 38 NATIONAL And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air, Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather. Then I drew back quickly : there came a cheer, A rush of figures, a noise and tussle, And then it was over, and high and clear My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle. Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried, And slowly and steadily, all together, Shoulder to shoulder and side to side, Rising and falling and swaying wide, But bearing above them the rose, my pride, They marched away in the twilight weather. And I leaned from my window and watched my rose Tossed on the waves of the surging column, Warmed from above in the sunset glows, Borne from below by an impulse solemn. Then I shut the window. I heard no more Of my soldier friend, nor my flower neither, But lived my life as I did before. I did not go as a nurse to the war, Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore, So I did n't go to the hospital either. You smile, poet, and what do you? You lean from your window, and watch life's column Trampling and struggling through dust and dew, Filled with its purposes grave and solemn ; And an act, a gesture, a face who knows ? Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you, And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows And down it flies like my red, red rose, And you sit and dream as away it goes, And think that your duty is done, now don't you ? MISS BLANCHE SAYS 39 I know your answer. I 'm not yet through. Look at this photograph, " In the Trenches " ! That dead man in the coat of blue Holds a withered rose in his hand. That clenches Nothing ! except that the sun paints true, And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded. And that 's my romance. And, poet, you Take it and mould it to suit your view ; , And who knows but you may find it too Come to your heart once more, as mine did. AN AECTIC VISION WHERE the short-legged Esquimaux Waddle in the ice and snow, And the playful Polar bear Nips the hunter unaware ; Where by day they track the ermine, And by night another vermin, Segment of the frigid zone, Where the temperature alone Warms on St. Elias' cone ; Polar dock, where Nature slips From the ways her icy ships ; Land of fox and deer and sable, Shore end of our western cable, Let the news that flying goes Thrill through all your Arctic floes, And reverberate the boast From the cliffs off Beechey's coast, Till the tidings, circling round Every bay of Norton Sound, Throw the vocal tide-wave back To the isles of Kodiac. Let the stately Polar bears Waltz around the pole in pairs, And the walrus, in his glee, Bare his tusk of ivory ; While the bold sea-unicorn Calmly takes an extra horn ; All ye Polar skies, reveal your AN AECTIC VISION Very rarest of parhelia; Trip it, all ye merry dancers, In the airiest of " Lancers ; " Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide, One inch farther to the tide, Nor in rash precipitation Upset Tyndall's calculation. Know you not what fate awaits you, Or to whom the future mates you ? All ye icebergs, make salaam, You belong to Uncle Sam ! On the spot where Eugene Sue Led his wretched Wandering Jew, Stands a form whose features strike Russ and Esquimaux alike. He it is whom Skalds of old In their Runic rhymes foretold ; Lean of flank and lank of jaw, See the real Northern Thor ! See the awful Yankee leering Just across the Straits of Behring ; On the drifted snow, too plain, Sinks his fresh tobacco stain, Just beside the deep inden- Tation of his Number 10. Leaning on his icy hammer Stands the hero of this drama, And above the wild-duck's clamor, In his own peculiar grammar, With its linguistic disguises, Lo ! the Arctic prologue rises : Wall, I reckon 't ain't so bad, Seein' ez 't was all they had. 42 NATIONAL True, the Springs are rather late, And early Falls predominate ; But the ice-crop 's pretty sure, And the air is kind o' pure ; 'T ain't so very mean a trade, When the land is all surveyed. There 's a right smart chance for fur-chase All along this recent purchase, And, unless the stories fail, Every fish from cod to whale ; Eocks, too ; mebbe quartz ; let 's see, 'T would be strange if there should be, Seems I 've heerd such stories told ; Eh ! why, bless us, yes, it 's gold ! " While the blows are falling thick From his California pick, You may recognize the Thor Of the vision that I saw, Freed from legendary glamour, See the real magician's hammer. ST. THOMAS (A GEOGRAPHICAL SURVEY, 1868) VERY fair and full of promise Lay the island of St. Thomas : Ocean o'er its reefs and bars Hid its elemental scars ; Groves of cocoanut and guava Grew above its fields of lava. So the gem of the Antilles "Isles of Eden," where no" ill is Like a great green turtle slumbered On the sea that it encumbered. Then said William Henry Seward, As he cast his eye to leeward, " Quite important to our commerce Is this island of St. Thomas." Said the Mountain ranges, " Thank' ee, But we cannot stand the Yankee O'er our scars and fissures poring, In our very vitals boring, In our sacred caverns prying, All our secret problems trying, Digging, blasting, with dynamit Mocking all our thunders ! Damn it ! Other lands may be more civil ; Bust our lava crust if we will ! " Said the Sea, its white teeth gnashing Through its coral-reef lips flashing, 44 NATIONAL " Shall I let this scheming mortal Shut with stone my shining portal, Curb my tide and check my play, Fence with wharves my shining bay ? Eather let me be drawn out In one awful waterspout ! " Said the black-browed Hurricane, Brooding down the Spanish Main, " Shall I see my forces, zounds ! Measured by square inch and pounds, With detectives at my back When I double on my track, And my secret paths made clear, Published o'er the hemisphere To each gaping, prying crew ? Shall I ? Blow me if I do ! " So the Mountains shook and thundered, And the Hurricane came sweeping, And the people stared and wondered As the Sea came on them leaping : Each, according to his promise, Made things lively at St. Thomas. Till one morn, when Mr. Seward Cast his weather eye to leeward, There was not an inch of dry land Left to mark his recent island. Not a flagstaff or a sentry, Not a wharf or port of entry, Only to cut matters shorter Just a patch of muddy water In the open ocean lying, And a gull above it flying. OFF SCARBOROUGH (SEPTEMBER, 1779) " HAVE a care ! " the bailiffs cried From their cockleshell that lay Off the frigate's yellow side, Tossing on Scarborough Bay, While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched away. " Take your chicks beneath your wings, And your claws and feathers spread, Ere the hawk upon them springs, Ere around Flamborough Head Swoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and talons red." How we laughed ! my mate and I, On the " Bon Homme Eichard's " deck, As we saw that convoy fly Like a snow-squall, till each fleck Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by speck ; And scuffling back to shore The Scarborough bailiffs sped, As the " Richard," with a roar Of her cannon round the Head, Crossed her royal yards and signaled to her consort: " Chase ahead I . 46 NATIONAL III But the devil seize Landais In that consort ship of France ! For the shabby, lubber way That he worked the " Alliance " In the offing, nor a broadside fired save to our m chance ! When tumbling to the van, With his battle-lanterns set, Rose the burly Englishman 'Gainst our hull as black as jet, Eode the yellow-sided " Serapis," and all alone we met ! All alone, though far at sea Hung his consort, rounding to ; All alone, though on our lee Fought our " Pallas," stanch and true ! For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle drew : And, like champions in a ring, There was cleared a little space Scarce a cable's length to swing Ere we grappled in embrace, All the world shut out around us, and we only face to face ! v Then awoke all hell below From that broadside, doubly curst, For our long eighteens in row Leaped the first discharge and burst ! And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own guns the worst. And as dumb we lay, till, through Smoke and flame and bitter cry, OFF SCARBOROUGH 47 Hailed the " Serapis : " " Have you Struck your colors ? " Our reply, " We have not yet begun to fight ! " went shouting to th sky! VI Eoux of Brest, old fisher, lay Like a herring gasping here ; Bunker of ISTantucket Bay, Blown from out the port, dropped sheer Half a cable's length to leeward ; yet we faintly raised a cheer As with his own right hand Our Commodore made fast The foeman's head-gear and The " Eichard's " mizzen-mast, And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to last! VII Yet the foeman, gun on gun, Through the " Eichard " tore a road, With his gunners' rammers run Through our ports at every load, Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers showed. Yet with entrails torn we clung Like the Spartan to OUT fox, And on deck no coward tongue Wailed the enemy's hard knocks, Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks. Then a thought rose in my brain, As through Channel mists the sun. From our tops a fire like rain Drove below decks every one Of the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a gun : 48 NATIONAL And that thought took shape as I On the " Richard's " yard lay out, That a man might do and die, If the doing brought about Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates' cheering shout ! Then I crept out in the dark Till I hung above the hatch Of the " Serapis," a mark For her marksmen ! with a match And a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to snatch One last look at sea and sky ! At the lighthouse on the hill ! At the harvest-moon on high ! And our pine flag fluttering still ! Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that devil's pill ! Then a blank was all between As the flames around me spun ! Had I fired the magazine ? Was the victory lost or won ? Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was done : For I lay among the dead In the cockpit of our foe, With a roar above my head, Till a trampling to and fro, And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what now you know ! CADET GREY CANTO I ACT first, scene first. A study. Of a kind Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave ; Hare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mind Of common man to compass or to crave ; Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined The soul at first to trifling, till, dismayed By text and title, it drew back resigned, Nor cared with levity to vex a shade That to itself such perfect concord made. ii Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain Of Jones, Lawgiver to the Commonwealth, As on the threshold of this chaste domain He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth To darkened canvases that frowned amain, With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began To spread their roots in Georgius Primus' reign, Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan, Their century fruit, the perfect Boston man. Somewhere within that Eussia-scented gloom A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear : " Brief is our business, Jones. Look round this room ! Eegard yon portraits ! Eead their meaning clear 1 50 NATIONAL These much proclaim my station. I presume You are our Congressman, before whose wit And sober judgment shall the youth appear Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit To serve his country and to honor it. * Such is my son ! Elsewhere perhaps 't were wise Trial competitive should guide your choice. There are some people I can well surmise Themselves must show their merits. History's voice Spares me that trouble : all desert that lies In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day, Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy's, Reverts to him ; entailed, as one might say ; In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey ! " v He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled, On the cropped head of one who stood beside. Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy child Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride ; 'T was but a Mind that somehow had beguiled From soulless Matter processes that served For speech and motion and digestion mild, Content if all one moral purpose nerved, Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved c He was scarce eighteen. Yet ere he was eight He had despoiled the classics ; much he knew Of Sanskrit ; not that he placed undue weight On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew, His favorite tongue. He learned, alas ! too late, One can't begin too early, would regret CADET GKEY 51 That boyish whim to ascertain the state Of Venus' atmosphere made him forget That philologic goal on which his soul was set. VII He too had traveled ; at the age of ten Found Paris empty, dull except for art And accent. " Mahille " with its glories then Less than Egyptian " Almees " touched a heart Nothing if not pure classic. If some men Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit, But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen, The better to instruct them, through some sheet Published in Boston, and signed " Beacon Street. " VIII From premises so plain the blind could see But one deduction, and it came next day. * In times like these, the- very name of G. Speaks volumes," wrote the Honorable J. Inclosed please find appointment." Presently Came a reception to which Harvard lent Fourteen professors, and, to give esprit, The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent, Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment. IX /our poets came who loved each other's song, And two philosophers, who thought that they Were in most things impractical and wrong ; And two reformers, each in his own way Peculiar, one who had waxed strong On herbs and water, and such simple fare ; Two foreign lions, " Ram See " and " Chy Long," And several artists claimed attention there, Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere. 2 NATIONAL X With this indorsement nothing now remained But counsel, Godspeed, and some calm adieux ; No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained, And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew. A slight publicity, such as obtained In classic Eome, these few last hours attended. The day arrived, the train and depot gamed, The mayor's own presence this last act commended , The train moved off, and here the first act ended. CANTO H i Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield Turns the whole river eastward through the pass ; Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas ; Where buttressed low against the storms that wield Their summer lightnings where her eaglets swarm, By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeled Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm Of leveled lances bares her bosom warm. But not to-night. The air and woods are still, The faintest rustle in the trees below, The lowest tremor from the mountain rill, Come to the ear as but the trailing flow Of spirit robes that walk unseen the hill ; The moon low sailing o'er the upland farm, The moon low sailing where the waters fill The lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm, Gleams like a chevron on the river's arm. CADET GREY 53 III All space breathes languor: from the hilltop high, Where Putnam's bastion crumbles in the past, To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lie And wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast ; Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and die On the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream ; Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by, Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleam Far on the level plain, then passes as a dream. IV Soft down the line of darkened battlements, Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls, Where the low arching sallyport indents, Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam falls. All is repose save where the camping tents Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound No morning guns for reveille, nor whence No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found Waiting and present on each sentry's round. v Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave, Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame, Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave ; Bred to fear nothing but reproach and blame, Ascetic dandies o'er whom vestals rave, Clean-limbed young Spartans, disciplined young elves, Taught to destroy, that they may live to save, Students embattled, soldiers at their shelves, Heroes whose conquests are at first themselves. VI Within the camp they lie, in dreams are freed From the grim discipline they learn to love j 54 NATIONAL In dreams no more the sentry's challenge heed, In dreams afar beyond their pickets rove ; One treads once more the piny paths that lead To his green mountain home, and pausing hears The cattle call ; one treads the tangled weed Of slippery rocks beside Atlantic piers ; One smiles in sleep, one wakens wet with tears. VII One scents the breath of jasmine flowers that twine The pillared porches of his Southern home ; One hears the coo of pigeons in the pine Of Western woods where he was wont to roam j One sees the sunset fire the distant line Where the long prairie sweeps its levels down ; One treads the snow-peaks ; one by lamps that shine Down the broad highways of the sea-girt town ; And two are missing, Cadets Grey and Brown ! VIII Much as I grieve to chronicle the fact, That selfsame truant known as " Cadet Grey " Was the young hero of our moral tract, Shorn of his twofold names on entrance-day. t; Winthrop " and " Adams " dropped in that one act Of martial curtness, and the roll-call thinned Of his ancestors, he with youthful tact Indulgence claimed, since Winthrop no more sinned, Nor sainted Adams winced when he, plain Grey, was " skinned." IX He had known trials since we saw him last, By sheer good luck had just escaped rejection, Not for his learning, but that it was cast In a spare frame scarce fit for drill inspection ; CADET GREY 55 But when he ope'd his lips a stream so vast Of information flooded each professor, They quite forgot his eyeglass, something past All precedent, accepting the transgressor, Weak eyes and all of which he was possessor. x E'en the first day he touched a blackboard's space So the tradition of his glory lingers Two wise professors fainted, each with face White as the chalk within his rapid fingers : All day he ciphered, at such frantic pace, His form was hid in chalk precipitation Of every problem, till they said his case Could meet from them no fair examinatiofi Till Congress made a new appropriation. XI Famous in molecules, he demonstrated From the mess hash to many a listening classful ; Great as a botanist, he separated Three kinds of " Mentha " in one julep's glassful ; High in astronomy, it has been stated He was the first at West Point to discover Mars' missing satellites, and calculated Their true positions, not the heavens over, But 'neath the window of Miss Kitty Roven XII Indeed, I fear this novelty celestial That very night was visible and clear ; At least two youths of aspect most terrestrial, And clad in uniform, were loitering near A villa's casement, where a gentle vestal Took their impatience somewhat patiently, 56 NATIONAL Knowing the youths were somewhat green and " bestial " (A certain slang of the Academy, I beg the reader won't refer to me). For when they ceased their ardent strain, Miss Kitty Glowed not with anger nor a kindred flame, But rather flushed with an odd sort of pity, Half matron's kindness, and half coquette's shame ; Proud yet quite blameful, when she heard their ditty She gave her soul poetical expression, And being clever too, as she was pretty, From her high casement warbled this confession, Half provocation and one half repression : NOT YET Not yet, friend, not yet ! the patient stars Lean from their lattices, content to wait. All is illusion till the morning lars Slip from the levels of the Eastern gate. Night is too young, O friend ! day is too near , Wait for the day that maketh all things clear. Not yet, friend, not yet I Not yet, love, not yet ! all is not true, All is not ever as it seemeth now. Soon shall the river take another blue, Soon dies yon light upon the mountain brow. What lieth dark, love, bright day will fill; Wait for thy morning, be it good or ill. Not yet, love, not yet ! XIV The strain was finished ; softly as the night Her voice died from the window, yet e'en then CADET GREY 57 Fluttered and fell likewise a kerchief white ; But that no doubt was accident, for when She sought her couch she deemed her conduct quite Beyond the reach of scandalous commenter, Washing her hands of either gallant wight, Knowing the moralist might compliment her, Thus voicing Siren with the words of Mentor. xv She little knew the youths below, who straight Dived for her kerchief, and quite overlooked The pregnant moral she would inculcate ; Nor dreamed the less how little Winthrop brooked Her right to doubt his soul's maturer state. Brown who was Western, amiable, and new Might take the moral and accept his fate; The which he did, but, being stronger too, Took the white kerchief, also, as his due. XVI They did not quarrel, which no doubt seemed queer To those who knew not how their friendship blended ; Each was opposed, and each the other's peer, Yet each the other in some things transcended. Where Brown lacked culture, brains, and oft, I fear, Cash in his pocket, Grey of course supplied him ; Where Grey lacked frankness, force, and faith sincere, Brown of his manhood suffered none to chide him, But in his faults stood manfully beside him. In academic walks and studies grave, In the camp drill and martial occupation, They helped each other ; but just here I crave Space for the reader's full imagination, 58 NATIONAL The fact is patent, Grey became a slave ! A tool, a fag, a " pleb " ! To state it plainer, All that blue blood and ancestry e'er gave Cleaned guns, brought water ! was, in fact, retainer To Jones, whose uncle was a paper-stainer ! How they bore this at home I cannot say : I only know so runs the gossip's tale. It chanced one day that the paternal Grey Came to West Point that he himself might hail The future hero in some proper way Consistent with his lineage. W T ith him came A judge, a poet, and a brave array Of aunts and uncles, bearing each a name, Eyeglass and respirator with the same. XIX : Observe ! " quoth Grey the elder to his friends, " Not in these giddy youths at baseball playing You '11 notice Winthrop Adams ! Greater ends Than these absorb his leisure. No doubt straying With Caesar's Commentaries, he attends Some Roman council. Let us ask, however, Yon grimy urchin, who my soul offends By wheeling offal, if he will endeavor To find What ! heaven ! Winthrop ! Oh ! no J never I " Alas ! too true ! The last of all the Greys Was " doing police detail," it had come To this ; in vain the rare historic bays That crowned the pictured Puritans at home ! And yet 't was certain that in grosser ways CADET GREY 59 Of health and physique he was quite improving. Straighter he stood, and had achieved some praise In other exercise, much more behooving A soldier's taste than merely dirt removing. But to resume : we left the youthful pair, Some stanzas back, before a lady's bower j 7 T is to be hoped they were no longer there, For stars were pointing to the morning hour. Their escapade discovered, ill 'twould fare With our two heroes, derelict of orders ; But, like the ghost, they " scent the morning air," And back again they steal across the borders, Unseen, unheeded, by their martial warders. XXII They got to bed with speed : young Grey to dream Of some vague future with a general's star, And Mistress Kitty basking in its gleam ; While Brown, content to worship her afar, Dreamed himself dying by some lonely stream, Having snatched Kitty from eighteen Nez Perces, Till a far bugle, with the morning beam, In his dull ear its fateful song rehearses, Which Winthrop Adams after put to verses. XXIII So passed three years of their novitiate, The first real boyhood Grey had ever known. His youth ran clear, not choked like his Cochituate, In civic pipes, but free and pure alone ; Yet knew repression, could himself habituate To having mind and body well rubbed down, Could read himself in others, and could situate 60 NATIONAL Themselves in him, except, I grieve to own, He could n't see what Kitty saw in Brown ! XXIV At last came graduation ; Brown received In the One Hundredth Cavalry commission ; Then frolic, flirting, parting, when none grieved Save Brown, who loved our young Academician, And Grey, who felt his friend was still deceived By Mistress Kitty, who with other beauties Graced the occasion, and it was believed Had promised Brown that when he could recruit his Promised command, she 'd share with him those duties Howe'er this was I know not ; all I know, The night was June's, the moon rode high and clear; 'T was such a night as this," three years ago, Miss Kitty sang the song that two might hear. There is a walk where trees o'erarching grow, Too wide for one, not wide enough for three (A fact precluding any plural beau), Which quite explained Miss Kitty's company, But not why Grey that favored one should be. There is a spring, whose limpid waters hide Somewhere within the shadows of that path Called Kosciusko's. There two figures bide, Grey and Miss Kitty. Surely Nature hath No fairer mirror for a might-be bride Than this same pool that caught our gentle belle To its dark heart one moment. At her side Grey bent. A something trembled o'er the well, Bright, spherical a tear ? Ah no ! a button fell ! CADET GKEY 61 XXVII " Material minds might think that gravitation," Quoth Grey, " drew yon metallic spheroid down. The soul poetic views the situation Fraught with more meaning. When thy girlish crown Was mirrored there, there was disintegration Of me, and all my spirit moved to you, Taking the form of slow precipitation ! " But here came " Taps," a start, a smile, adieu 1 A blush, a sigh, and end of Canto II. BUGLE SONG Fades the light, And afar Goeth day, cometh night; And a star Leadeth all, Speedeth all To their rest/ Love, good-night ! Must thou go When the day And the light Need thee so, Needeth all, Heedeth all, That is best ? CANTO III i Where the sun sinks through leagues of arid sky, Where the sun dies o'er leagues of arid plain, Where the dead bones of wasted rivers lie, Trailed from their channels in yon mountain chain; Where day by day naught takes the wearied eye NATIONAL But the low-rimming mountains, sharply based On the dead levels, moving far or nigh, As the sick vision wanders o'er the waste, But ever day by day against the sunset traced : There moving through a poisonous cloud that stings With dust of alkali the trampling band Of Indian ponies, ride on dusky wings The red marauders of the Western land ; Heavy with spoil, they seek the trail that brings Their flaunting lances to that sheltered bank Where lie their lodges ; and the river sings Forgetful of the plain beyond, that drank Its life blood, where the wasted caravan sank. in They brought with them the thief's ignoble spoil, The beggar's dole, the greed of chiffonnier, The scum of camps, the implements of toil Snatched from dead hands, to rust as useless here ; All they could rake or glean from hut or soil Piled their lean ponies, with the jackdaw's greed For vacant glitter. It were scarce a foil To all this tinsel that one feathered reed Bore on its barb two scalps that freshly bleed ! They brought with them, alas ! a wounded foe, Bound hand and foot, yet nursed with cruel care, Lest that in death he might escape one throe They had decreed his living flesh should bear : A youthful officer, by one foul blow Of treachery surprised, yet fighting still Amid his ambushed train, calm as the snow CADET GREY 63 Above him ; hopeless, yet content to spill His blood with theirs, and fighting but to kilL He had fought nobly, and in that brief spell Had won the awe of those rude border men Who gathered round him, and beside him fell In loyal faith and silence, save that when By smoke embarrassed, and near sight as well, He paused to wipe his eyeglass, and decide Its nearer focus, there arose a yell Of approbation, and Bob Barker cried, " Wade in, Dundreary ! " tossed his cap and died. VI Their sole survivor now ! his captors bear Him all unconscious, and beside the stream Leave him to rest ; meantime the squaws prepare The stake for sacrifice : nor wakes a gleam Of pity in those Furies' eyes that glare Expectant of the torture ; yet alway His steadfast spirit shines and mocks them there With peace they know not, till at close of day On his dull ear there thrills a whispered " Grey ! " He starts ! Was it a trick ? Had angels kind Touched with compassion some weak woman's breast ? Such things he 'd read of ! Faintly to his mind Came Pocahontas pleading for her guest. But then, this voice, though soft, was still inclined To baritone ! A squaw in ragged gown Stood near him, frowning hatred. Was he blind ? Whose eye was this beneath that beetling frown ? The frown was painted, but that wink meant Brown ! 64 NATIONAL VIII " Hush ! for your life and mine ! the thongs are cut," He whispers ; " in yon thicket stands my horse. One dash ! I follow close, as if to glut My own revenge, yet bar the others' course. Xow ! " And 't is done. Grey speeds, Brown follows ; but Ere yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels, Yet not before Brown's circling arms close shut His in, uplifting him ! Anon he feels A horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling IX Then rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprang Headlong the savages in swift pursuit ; Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hang Hot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot. Long is the chase ; Brown hears with inward pang The short, hard panting of his gallant steed Beneath its double burden ; vainly rang Both voice and spur. The heaving flanks may bleed, Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed ! Brown saw it reined his steed ; dismounting, stood Calm and inflexible. " Old chap ! you see There is but one escape. You know it ? Good ! There is one man to take it. You are he. The horse won't carry double. If he could, 'T would but protract this bother. I shall stay : J[ 've business with these devils, they with me ; I will occupy them till you get away. Hush ! quick time, forward. There ! God bless yon, Grey ! " CADET GREY 65 XI But as he finished, Grey slipped to his feet, Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye : w You do forget yourself '.yhen you compete With him whose right it is to stay and die : That 's not your duty. Please regain your seat ; And take my orders since I rank you here ! Mount and rejoin your men, and my defeat Report at quarters. Take this letter ; ne'er Give it to aught but her, nor let aught interfere." XII And, shamed and blushing, Brown the letter took Obediently and placed it in his pocket ; Then, drawing forth another, said, " I look For death as you do, wherefore take this locket And letter." Here his comrade's hand he shook In silence. " Should we both together fall, Some other man " but here all speech forsook His lips, as ringing cheerily o'er all He heard afar his own dear bugle-call ! XIII 'T was his command and succor, but e'en then Grey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgot He likewise had been wounded, and both men Were picked up quite unconscious of their lot. Long lay they in extremity, and when They both grew stronger, and once more exchanged Old vows and memories, one common " den " In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged, Awaiting orders, but no more estranged. XIV And yet 't was strange nor can I end my tale Without this moral, to be fair and just : 66 NATIONAL They never sought to know why each did fail The prompt fulfillment of the other's trust. It was suggested they could not avail Themselves of either letter, since they were Duly dispatched to their address by mail By Captain X., who knew Miss Rover fair Now meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank Square. II. SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO THIS is the tale that the Chronicle Tells of the wonderful miracle Wrought hy the pious Padre Serro, The very reverend Junipero. The heathen stood on his ancient mound, Looking over the desert bound Into the distant, hazy South, Over the dusty and broad champaign, Where, with many a gaping mouth And fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth, For seven months had the wasted plain Known no moisture of dew or rain. The wells were empty and choked with sand; The rivers had perished from the land ; Only the sea-fogs to and fro Slipped like ghosts of the streams below. Deep in its bed lay the river's bones, Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones, And tracked o'er the desert faint and far, Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar. Thus they stood as the sun went down Over the foot-hills bare and brown ; Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom The pale-face medicine-man should come, Not in anger or in strife, 68 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS But to bring so ran the tale The welcome springs of eternal life, The living waters that should not fail. Said one, " He will come like Manitou, Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew." Said another, " He will come full soon Out of the round-faced watery moon." And another said, " He is here ! " and lo, Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow, Out from the desert's blinding heat The Padre dropped at the heathen's feet. They stood and gazed for a little space Down on his pallid and careworn face, And a smile of scorn went round the band As they touched alternate with foot and hand This mortal waif, that the outer space Of dim mysterious sky and sand Flung with so little of Christian grace Down on their barren, sterile strand. Said one to him : " It seems thy God Is a very pitiful kind of God : He could not shield thine aching eyes From the blowing desert sands that rise, Nor turn aside from thy old gray head The glittering blade that is brandished By the sun He set in the heavens high ; He could not moisten thy lips when dry ; The desert fire is in thy brain ; Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain If this be the grace He showeth thee Who art His servant, what may we, Strange to His ways and His commands, Seek at His unforgiving hands ? " THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO 69 Drink but this cup," said the Padre, straight, And thou shalt know whose mercy bore These aching limbs to your heathen door, And purged my soul of its gross estate. Drink in His name, and thou shalt see The hidden depths of this mystery. Drink ! " and he held the cup. One blow From the heathen dashed to the ground below The sacred cup that the Padre bore, And the thirsty soil drank the precious store Of sacramental and holy wine, That emblem and consecrated sign And blessed symbol of blood divine. Then, says the legend (and they who doubt The same as heretics be accurst), From the dry and feverish soil leaped out A living fountain ; a well-spring burst Over the dusty and broad champaign, Over the sandy and sterile plain, Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones That lay in the valley the scattered bones = Moved in the river and lived again ! Such was the wonderful miracle Wrought by the cup of wine that fell From the hands of the pious Padre Serro, The very reverend Junipero. THE WONDEKFUL SPUING OF SAN JOAQUIN OF all the fountains that poets sing, Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring, Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth, Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth, In short, of all the springs of Time That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, That ever were tasted, felt, or seen, There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin. Anno Domini eighteen-seven, Father Dominguez (now in heaven, Obiit eighteen twenty-seven) Found the spring, and found it, too, By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe ; For his beast a descendant of Balaam's ass - Stopped on the instant, and would not pass. The Padre thought the omen good, And bent his lips to the trickling flood; Then as the Chronicles declare, On the honest faith of a true believer His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare, Filled like a withered russet pear In the vacuum of a glass receiver, And the snows that seventy winters bring Melted away in that magic spring. Such, at least, was the wondrous news The Padre brought into Santa Cruz. THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN 71 The Church, of course, had its own views Of who were worthiest to use The magic spring ; but the prior claim Fell to the aged, sick, and lame. Far and wide the people came : Some from, the healthful Aptos Creek Hastened to bring their helpless sick ; Even the fishers of rude Soquel Suddenly found they were far from well ; The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo Said, in fact, they had never been so ; And all were ailing, strange to say, From Pescadero to Monterey. Over the mountain they poured in, With leathern bottles and bags of skin, Through the canons a motley throng Trotted, hobbled, and limped along. The Fathers gazed at the moving scene With pious joy and with souls serene ; And then a result perhaps foreseen They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin. Not in the eyes of faith alone The good effects of the water shone ; But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, Of rough vaquero and muleteer j Angular forms were rounded out, Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout j And as for the girls, for miles about They had no equal ! To this day, From Pescadero to Monterey, You '11 still find eyes in which are seen The liquid graces of San Joaquiu, 72 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS There is a limit to human bliss, And the Mission of San Joaquin had this ; None went abroad to roam or stay But they fell sick in the queerest way, A singular maladie du pays, With gastric symptoms : so they spent Their days in a sensuous content, Caring little for things unseen Beyond their bovvers of living green, Beyond the mountains that lay between The world and the Mission of San Joaquin. Winter passed, and the summer came ; The trunks of madrono, all aflame, Here and there through the underwood Like pillars of fire starkly stood. All of the breezy solitude Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay And resinous odors mixed and blended ; And dim and ghostlike, far away, The smoke of the burning woods ascended. Then of a sudden the mountains swam, The rivers piled their floods in a dam, The ridge above Los Gatos Creek Arched its spine in a feline fashion ; The forests waltzed till they grew sick, And Nature shook in a speechless passion ; And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen, The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin Vanished, and never more was seen ! Two days passed : the Mission folk Out of their rosy dream awoke ; Some of them looked a trifle white, But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright. THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN 73 Three days : there was sore distress, Headache, nausea, giddiness. Four days : faintings, tenderness Of the mouth and fauces ; and in less Than one week here the story closes ; We won't continue the prognosis Enough that now no trace is seen Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin. MORAL You see the point ? Don't be too quick To break bad habits : better stick, Like the Mission folk, to your arsenic. THE ANGELUS (HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868) BELLS of the Past, whose long-forgotten music Still fills the wide expanse, Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present With color of romance ! I hear your call, and see the sun descending On rock and wave and sand, As down the coast the Mission voices, blending, Girdle the heathen land. Within the circle of your incantation No blight nor mildew falls ; Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition Passes those airy walls. Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, I touch the farther Past ; I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, The sunset dream and last ! Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers, The white Presidio ; The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, The priest in stole of snow. Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting Above the setting sun ; THE ANGELUS 75 And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting, The freighted galleon. solemn bells ! whose consecrated masses Eecall the faith of old ; tinkling bells ! that lulled with twilight music The spiritual fold ! Your voices break and falter in the darkness, Break, falter, and are still ; And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending, The sun sinks from the hill I CONCEPCION DE AKGUELLO (PRESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO, isoo) i LOOKING seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and quaint, By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint, Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed, On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel's golden reed ; All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed away ; And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day. Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering eye, Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by ; Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of gold With the plain and homespun present, and a love that ne'er grows old ; Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner dust, Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and trust. CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO 77 II Count von Eesanoff, the Eussian, envoy of the mighty Czar, Stood beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are. He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene debate On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state ; He from grave provincial magnates oft had- turned to talk apart With the Commandante's daughter on the questions of the heart, Until points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one, And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun ; Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar ; Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothed bade adieu, And from sallyport and gateway north the Eussian eagles flew. ill Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of the Czar ; Day by day on wall and bastion beat the hollow, empty breeze, Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling 78 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty leather cloaks, Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing plain of oaks ; Till the rains came, and far breaking, on the fierce south- wester tost, Dashed the whole long coast with color, and then vanished and were lost. So each year the seasons shifted, wet and warm and drear and dry ; Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and sky. Still it brought no ship nor message, brought no tidings, ill or meet, For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair and sweet. Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears beside : " He will come," the flowers whispered ; " Come no more," the dry hills sighed. Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning breeze, Still she lost him with the folding of the great white- tented seas ; Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olivo brown, And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO 79 Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied caress, And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress. Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are, Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from afar ; Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech : " 'Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he;' * Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree ; ' " ' He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall have flies ; ' ' In the end God grinds the miller ; ' ' In the dark the mole has eyes ; ' " ' He whose father is Alcalde of his trial hath no fear/ And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his con- duct clear." Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it would teach Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech ; And on "Concha," " Conchitita," and "Conchita" he would dwell With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well. 80 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt, Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and went out. IV Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately caval- cade, Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid ; Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport, Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court. Vainly then at Concha's lattice, vainly as the idle wind, Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth too kind ; Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their mustang's feet ; So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay serapes L . blazed, Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had raised. Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, with patient mien, /yvu^u-w The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull routine, Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone, Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary mono- tone. CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO 81 V Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze, Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas ; Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure decay, And St. George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey ; And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gayly drest, All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveler and guest. Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set, And exchanged congratulations with the English baronet ; Till, the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine, Some one spoke of Concha's lover, heedless of the warn- ing sign. Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson : " Speak no ill of him, I pray ! He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day,- "Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a frac- tious horse. Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course ! " Lives she yet ? " A deathlike silence fell on banquet, guests, and hall, And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of all. 82 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the nun's white hood ; Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood. " Lives she yet ? " Sir George repeated. All were hushed as Concha drew Closer yet her nun's attire. " Senor, pardon, she died, too!" "FOE THE KING" (NORTHERN MEXICO, 1640) As you look from the plaza at Leon west You can see her house, but the view is best From the porch of the church where she lies at rest ; Where much of her past still lives, I think, In the scowling brows and sidelong blink Of the worshiping throng that rise or sink To the waxen saints that, yellow and lank, Lean out from their niches, rank on rank. With a bloodless Saviour on either flank ; In the gouty pillars, whose cracks begin To show the adobe core within, A soul of earth in a whitewashed skin. And I think that the moral of all, you '11 say, Is the sculptured legend that moulds away On a tomb in the choir : " For el Key." For el Eey ! " Well, the king is gone Ages ago, and the Hapsburg one Shot but the Kock of the Church lives on. ** For el Eey ! " What matters, indeed, If king or president succeed To a country haggard with sloth and greed, 84 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS As long as one granary is fat, And yonder priest, in a shovel hat, Peeps out from the bin like a sleek brown rat ? What matters ? Naught, if it serves to bring The legend nearer, no other thing, We'll spare the moral, "Live the king! " Two hundred years ago, they say, The Viceroy, Marquis of Monte-Rey, Rode with his retinue that way : Grave, as befitted Spain's grandee ; Grave, as the substitute should be Of His Most Catholic Majesty ; Yet, from his black plume's curving grace To his slim black gauntlet's smaller space, Exquisite as a piece of lace ! Two hundred years ago e'en so The Marquis stopped where the lime-trees blow, While Leon's seneschal bent him low, And begged that the Marquis would that night take His humble roof for the royal sake, And then, as the custom demanded, spake The usual wish, that his guest would hold The house, and all that it might enfold, As his with the bride scarce three days old. Be sure that the Marquis, in his place, Replied to all with the measured grace Of chosen speech and unmoved face ; "FOE THE KING" 85 Kor raised his head till his black plume swept The hem of the lady's robe, who kept Her place, as her husband backward stept. And then (I know not how nor why) A subtle flame in the lady's eye Unseen by the courtiers standing by Burned through his lace and titled wreath, Burned through his body's jeweled sheath, Till it touched the steel of the man beneath! (And yet, mayhap, no more was meant Than to point a well-worn compliment, And the lady's beauty, her worst intent.) Howbeit, the Marquis bowed again : Who rules with awe well serveth Spain, But best whose law is love made plain." Be sure that night no pillow prest The seneschal, but with the rest Watched, as was due a royal guest, Watched from the wall till he saw the square Fill with the moonlight, white and bare, Watched till he saw two shadows fare Out from his garden, where the shade That the old church tower and belfry made Like a benedictory hand was laid. Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned To his nearest sentry : " These monks have learned That stolen fruit is sweetly earned. 86 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS " Myself shall punish yon acolyte Who gathers my garden grapes by night ; Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light." Yet not till the sun was riding high Did the sentry meet his commander's eye, Nor then till the Viceroy stood by. To the lovers of grave formalities No greeting was ever so fine, I wis, As this host's and guest's high courtesies ! The seneschal feared, as the wind was west, A blast from Morena had chilled his rest ; The Viceroy languidly confest That cares of state, and he dared to say Some fears that the King could not repay The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way Had marred his rest. Yet he trusted much None shared his wakefulness ; though such Indeed might be ! If he dared to touch A theme so fine the bride, perchance, Still slept ! At least, they missed her glance To give this greeting countenance. Be sure that the seneschal, in turn, Was deeply bowed with the grave concern Of the painful news his guest should learn : '* Last night, to her father's dying bed By a priest was the lady summoned ; Nor know we yet how well she sped, "FOR THE KING" 87 " But hope for the best." The grave Viceroy (Though grieved his visit had such alloy) Must still wish the seneschal great joy Of a bride so true to her filial trust ! Yet now, as the day waxed on, they must To horse, if they 'd 'scape the noonday dust. "Nay," said the seneschal, "at least, To mend the news of this funeral priest, Myself shall ride as your escort east." The Viceroy bowed. Then turned aside To his nearest follower : " With me ride You and Felipe on either side. And list ! Should anything me befall, Mischance of ambush or musket-ball, Cleave to his saddle yon seneschal ! " No more." Then gravely in accents clear Took formal leave of his late good cheer ; Whiles the seneschal whispered a musketeer, Carelessly stroking his pommel top : " If from the saddle ye see me drop, Riddle me quickly yon solemn fop ! " So these, with many a compliment, Each on his own dark thought intent, With grave politeness onward went, Eiding high, and in sight of all, Viceroy, escort, and seneschal, Under the shade of the Almandral ; SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS Holding their secret hard and fast, Silent and grave they ride at last Into the dusty traveled Past. Even like this they passed away Two hundred years ago to-day. What of the lady ? Who shall say ? Do the souls of the dying ever yearn To some favored spot for the dust's return, For the homely peace of the family urn ? I know not. Yet did the seneschal, Chancing in after-years to fall Pierced by a Flemish musket-ball, Call to his side a trusty friar, And bid him swear, as his last desire, To bear his corse to San Pedro's choir At Leon, where 'neath a shield azure Should his mortal frame find sepulture : This much, for the pains Christ did endure. Be sure that the friar loyally Fulfilled his trust by land and sea, Till the spires of Leon silently Eose through the green of the Almandral, As if to beckon the seneschal To his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall. I wot that the saints on either side Leaned from their niches open-eyed To see the doors of the church swing wide ; "FOR THE KING" 89 That the wounds of the Saviour on either flank Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank, Went hy with the coffin, clank on clank. For why ? When they raised the marble door Of the tomb, untouched for years before, The friar swooned on the choir floor ; For there, in her laces and festal dress, Lay the dead man's wife, her loveliness Scarcely changed by her long duress, As on the night she had passed away ; Only that near her a dagger lay, With the written legend, " For el Key." What was their greeting, the groom and bride, They whom that steel and the years divide ? I know not. Here they lie side by side. Side by side ! Though the king has his way, Even the dead at last have their day. Make you the moral. " For el Key I " KAMON (BEFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO) DRUNK and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face, More like brute than any man Alive or dead, By his great pump out of gear, Lay the peon engineer, Waking only just to hear, Overhead, Angry tones that called his name, Oaths and cries of hitter hlame, Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled/ " To the man who '11 bring to me," Cried Intendant Harry Lee, Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, " Bring the sot alive or dead, I will give to him," he said, " Fifteen hundred pesos down, Just to set the rascal's crown Underneath this heel of mine : Since but death Deserves the man whose deed, Be it vice or want of heed, Stops the pumps that give us breath, Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower levels of the mine ! " RAMON 91 No one answered ; for a cry From the shaft rose up on high, And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, Came the miners each, the bolder Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, Grappling, clinging to their hold or Letting go, As the weaker gasped and fell From the ladder to the well, To the poisoned pit of hell Down below ! * To the man who sets them free," Cried the foreman, Harry Lee, Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, " Brings them out and sets them free, I will give that man," said he, " Twice that sum, who with a rope Face to face with Death shall cope. Let him come who dares to hope ! " " Hold your peace ! " some one replied, Standing by the foreman's side ; " There has one already gone, whoe'er he be ! " Then they held their breath with awe, Pulling on the rope, and saw Fainting figures reappear, On the black rope swinging clear, Fastened by some skillful hand from below ; Till a score the level gained, And but one alone remained, He the hero and the last, He whose skillful hand made fast The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer ! 92 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS Haggard, gasping, down dropped he At the feet of Harry Lee, Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine. " I have come," he gasped, " to claim Both rewards. Senor, my name Is Ramon ! I 'm the drunken engineer, I 'm the coward, Senor " Here He fell over, by that sign, Dead as stone 1 DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH (REFECTORY, MISSION SAN GABRIEL, 1869) GOOD ! said the Padre, believe me still, " Don Giovanni," or what you will, The type 's eternal ! We knew him here As Don Diego del Sud. I fear The story 's no new one ! Will you hear ? One of those spirits you can't tell why God has permitted. Therein I Have the advantage, for / hold That wolves are sent to the purest fold, And we 'd save the wolf if we 'd get the lamb. You 're no believer ? Good ! I am. Well, for some purpose, I grant you dim, The Don loved women, and they loved him. Each thought herself his last love ! Worst, Many believed that they were his first ! And, such are these creatures since the Fall, The very doubt had a charm for all ! You laugh ! You are young, but / indeed I have no patience ... To proceed : You saw, as you passed through the upper town, The Eucinal where the road goes down To San Felipe ! There one morn They found Diego, his mantle torn, 94 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS And as many holes through his doublet's hand As there were wronged hushands you understand ! " Dying," so said the gossips. " Dead " Was what the friars who found him said. May be. Quien sabe ? Who else should know ? It was a hundred years ago. There was a funeral. Small indeed Private. What would you ? To proceed : Scarcely the year had flown. One night The Commandante awoke in fright, Hearing below his casement's bar The well-known twang of the Don's guitar ; And rushed to the window, just to see His wife a-swoon on the balcony. One week later, Don Juan Kamirez Found his own daughter, the Dona Inez, Pale as a ghost, leaning out to hear The song of that phantom cavalier. Even Alcalde Pedro Bias Saw, it was said, through his niece's glass, The shade of Diego twice repass. What these gentlemen each confessed Heaven and the Church only knows. At best The case was a bad one. How to deal With Sin as a Ghost, they could n't but feel Was an awful thing. Till a certain Fray Humbly offered to show the way. And the way was this. Did I say before That the Fray was a stranger ? No, Senor ? Strange.! very strange ! I should have said DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH 95 That the very week that the Don lay dead He came among us. Bread he broke Silent, nor ever to one he spoke. So he had vowed it ! Below his brows His face was hidden. There are such vows ! Strange ! are they not ? You do not use Snuff? A bad habit! Well, the views Of the Fray were these : that the penance done By the caballeros was right ; but one Was due from the cause, and that, in brief, Was Dona Dolores Gomez, chief, And Inez, Sanchicha, Concepcion, And Carmen, well, half the girls in town On his tablets the Friar had written down. These were to come on a certain day And ask at the hands of the pious Fray For absolution. That done, small fear But the shade of Diego would disappear. They came ; each knelt in her turn and place To the pious Fray with his hidden face And voiceless lips, and each again Took back her soul freed from spot or stain, Till the Dona Inez, with eyes downcast And a tear on their fringes, knelt her last. And then perhaps that her voice was low From fear or from shame the monks said so But the Fray leaned forward, when, presto ! all Were thrilled by a scream, and saw her fall Fainting beside the confessional. 86 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS And so was the ghost of Diego laid As the Fray had said. Never more his shade Was seen at San Gabriel's Mission. Eh ! The girl interests you ? I dare say ! " Nothing," said she, when they brought her to = t( Only a faintness ! " They spoke more true Who said 'twas a stubborn soul. But then Women are women, and men are men ! So, to return. As I said before, Having got the wolf, by the same high law We saved the lamb in the wolf 's own jaw, And that 's my moral. The tale, I fear, But poorly told. Yet it strikes me here Is stuff for a moral. What 's your view ? You smile, Don Pancho. Ah ! that 's like you I AT THE HACIENDA KNOW I not whom thou mayst be Carved upon this olive-tree, " Manuela of La Torre," For around on broken walls Summer sun and spring rain falls, And in vain the low wind calls "Manuela of La Torre." Of that song no words remain But the musical refrain, " Manuela of La Torre." Yet at night, when winds are still, Tinkles on the distant hill A guitar, and words that thrill Tell to me the old, old story, Old when first thy charms were sung, Old when these old walls were young, " Manuela of La Torre." FKIAK, PEDEO'S EIDB IT was the morning season of the year ; It was the morning era of the land ; The watercourses rang full loud and clear ; Portala's cross stood where Portala's hand Had planted it when Faith was taught by Fear, When monks and missions held the sole command Of all that shore beside the peaceful sea, Where spring-tides beat their long-drawn reveille. Out of the mission of San Luis Hey, All in that brisk, tumultuous spring weather, Eode Friar Pedro, in a pious way, With six dragoons in cuirasses of leather, Each armed alike for either prayer or fray ; Handcuffs and missals they had slung together, And as an aid the gospel truth to scatter Each swung a lasso alias a " riata." In sooth, that year the harvest had been slack, The crop of converts scarce worth computation ; Some souls were lost, whose owners had turned back To save their bodies frequent flagellation ; And some preferred the songs of birds, alack ! To Latin matins and their souls' salvation, And thought their own wild whoopings were less dreary Than Father Pedro's droning miserere. To bring them back to matins and to prime, To pious works and secular submission, FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE 99 To prove to them that liberty was crime, This was, in fact, the Padre's present mission ; To get new souls perchance at the same time, And bring them to a " sense of their condition," That easy phrase, which, in the past and present, Means making that condition most unpleasant. He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow ; He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill ; He saw the gopher working in his burrow ; He saw the squirrel scampering at his will : He saw all this, and felt no doubt a thorough And deep conviction of God's goodness ; still He failed to see that in His glory He Yet left the humblest of His creatures free. He saw the flapping crow, whose frequent note Voiced the monotony of land and sky, Mocking with graceless wing and rusty coat His priestly presence as he trotted by. He would have cursed the bird by bell and rote, But other game just then was in his eye, A savage camp, whose occupants preferred Their heathen darkness to the living Word. He rang his bell, and at the martial sound Twelve silver spurs their jingling rowels clashed ; Six horses sprang across the level ground As six dragoons in open order dashed ; Above their heads the lassos circled round, In every eye a pious fervor flashed ; They charged the camp, and in one moment more They lassoed six and reconverted four. The Friar saw the conflict from a knoll, And sang Laus Deo and cheered on his men : 100 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS " Well thrown, Bautista, that 's another soul ; After him, Gomez, try it once again ; This way, Felipe, there the heathen stole ; Bones of St. Francis ! surely that makes ten$ Te Deum laudaimis but they 're very wild ; Non nobis Domine all right, my child!" When at that moment as the story goes A certain squaw, who had her foes eluded, Ran past the Friar, just before his nose. He stared a moment, and in silence brooded ; Then in his breast a pious frenzy rose And every other prudent thought excluded ; He caught a lasso, and dashed in a canter After that Occidental Atalanta. High o'er his head he swirled the dreadful noose j But, as the practice was quite unfamiliar, His first cast tore Felipe's captive loose, And almost choked Tiburcio Camilla, And might have interfered with that brave youth's Ability to gorge the tough tortilla ; But all things come by practice, and at last His flying slip-knot caught the maiden fast. Then rose above the plain a mingled yell Of rage and triumph, a demoniac whoop : The Padre heard it like a passing knell, And would have loosened his unchristian loop ; But the tough raw-hide held the captive well, And held, alas ! too well the captor-dupe ; For with one bound the savage fled amain, Dragging horse, Friar, down the lonely plain. Down the arroyo, out across the mead, By heath and hollow, sped the flying maid, FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE 10J Dragging behind her still the panting steed And helpless Friar, who in vain essayed To cut the lasso or to check his speed. He felt himself beyond all human aid, And trusted to the saints, and, for that matter, To some weak spot in Felipe's riata. Alas ! the lasso had been duly blessed, And, like baptism, held the flying wretch, A doctrine that the priest had oft expressed, Which, like the lasso, might be made to stretch, But would not break ; so neither could divest Themselves of it, but, like some awful fetch, The holy Friar had to recognize The image of his fate in heathen guise. He, saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow ; He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill ; He saw the gopher standing in his burrow ; He saw the squirrel scampering at his will : He saw all this, and felt no doubt how thorough The contrast was to his condition ; still The squaw kept onward to the sea, till night And the cold sea-fog hid them both from sight. The morning came above -the serried coast, Lighting the snow-peaks with its beacon-fires, Driving before it all the fleet-winged host Of chattering birds above the Mission spires, Filling the land with light and joy, but most The savage woods with all their leafy lyres ; In pearly tints and opal flame and fire The morning came, but not the holy Friar. Weeks passed away. In vain the Fathers sought Some trace or token that might tell his story ; 102 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS Some thought him dead, or, like Elijah, caught Up to the heavens in a blaze of glory. In this surmise some miracles were wrought On his account, and souls in purgatory Were thought to profit from his intercession ; In brief, his absence made a " deep impression." A twelvemonth passed ; the welcome Spring once more Made green the hills beside the white-faced Mission, Spread her bright dais by the western shore, And sat enthroned, a most resplendent vision. The heathen converts thronged the chapel door At morning mass, when, says the old tradition, A frightful whoop throughout the church resounded, And to their feet the congregation bounded. A tramp of hoofs upon the beaten course, Then came a sight that made the bravest quail : A phantom Friar on a spectre horse, Dragged by a creature decked with horns and tail. By the lone Mission, with the whirlwind's force, They madly swept, and left a sulphurous trail : And that was all, enough to tell the story, And leave unblessed those souls in purgatory. And ever after, on that fatal day That Friar Pedro rode abroad lassoing, A ghostly couple came and went away With savage whoop and heathenish hallooing, Which brought discredit on San Luis Key, And proved the Mission's ruin and undoing ; For ere ten years had passed, the squaw and Friar Performed to empty walls and fallen spire. The Mission is no more ; upon its walls The golden lizards slip, or breathless pause, FRIAK PEDRO'S RIDE 103 Still as the sunshine hrokenly that falls Through crannied roof and spider-webs of gauze j No more the bell its solemn warning calls, A holier silence thrills and overawes; And the sharp lights and shadows of to-day Outline the Mission of San Luis Eey. IN THE MISSION GARDEN (1865) FATHER FELIPE I speak not the English well, but Pachita, She speak for me ; is it not so, my Pancha ? Eh, little rogue ? Come, salute me the stranger Americano. Sir, in my country we say, "Where the heart is, There live the speech." Ah ! you not understand ? So ! Pardon an old man, what you call " old fogy," Padre Felipe ! Old, Senor, old ! just so old as the Mission. You see that pear-tree ? How old you think, Senor ? Fifteen year ? Twenty ? Ah, Senor, just fifty Gone since I plant him ! You like the wine ? It is some at the Mission, Made from the grape of the year eighteen hundred ; All the same time when the earthquake he come to San Juan Bautista. But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree ; And I am the olive, and this is the garden : And " Pancha " we say, but her name is " Francisca," Same like her mother. IN THE MISSION GARDEN 105 Eh, you knew her ? No ? Ah ! it is a story ; But I speak not, like Pachita, the English : So ! if I try, you will sit here beside me, And shall not laugh, eh ? When the American come to the Mission, Many arrive at the house of Francisca : One, he was fine man, he buy the cattle Of Jose Castro. So ! he came much, and Francisca, she saw him : And it was love, and a very dry season ; And the pears bake on the tree, and the rain come, But not Francisca. Not for one year ; and one night I have walk much Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca, Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca, Under the olive-tree. Sir, it was sad ; . . . but I speak not the English ; So ! ... she stay here, and she wait for her husband : He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside ; There stands Pachita. Ah ! there 's the Angelus. Will you not enter ? Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha ? Go, little rogue st ! attend to the stranger ! Adios, Senor. PACHITA (briskly). So, he 's been telling that yarn about mother ! Bless you ! he tells it to every stranger : Folks about yer say the old man 's my father ; What 's your opinion ? THE LOST GALLEON* IN sixteen hundred and forty-one, The regular yearly galleon, Laden with odorous gums and spice, India cottons and India rice, And the richest silks of far Cathay, Was due at Acapulco Bay. Due she was, and overdue, Galleon, merchandise, and crew, Creeping along through rain and shine, Through the tropics, under the line. The trains were waiting outside the walls, The wives of sailors thronged the town, The traders sat by their empty stalls, And the Viceroy himself came down ; The bells in the tower were all a-trip, Te Deums were on each Father's lip, The limes were ripening in the sun For the sick of the coming galleon. All in vain. Weeks passed away, And yet no galleon saw the bay. India goods advanced in price ; The Governor missed his favorite spice j The Senoritas mourned for sandal And the famous cottons of Coromandel} And some for an absent lover lost, And one for a husband, Dona Julia, i See note, p. 327. THE LOST GALLEON 107 Wife of the captain tempest-tossed, In circumstances so peculiar ; Even the Fathers, unawares, Grumbled a little at their prayers ; And all along the coast that year Votive candles were scarce and dear. Never a tear bedims the eye That time and patience will not dry ; Never a lip is curved with pain That can't be kissed into smiles again ; And these same truths, as far as I know, Obtained on the coast of Mexico More than two hundred years ago, In sixteen hundred and fifty-one, Ten years after the deed was done, And folks had forgotten the galleon : The divers plunged in the gulf for pearls, White as the teeth of the Indian girls ; The traders sat by their full bazaars ; The mules with many a weary load, And oxen dragging their creaking cars, Came and went on the mountain road. Where was the galleon all this while ? Wrecked on some lonely coral isle, Burnt by the roving sea-marauders, Or sailing north under secret orders ? Had she found the Anian passage famed, By lying Maldonado claimed, And sailed through the sixty-fifth degree Direct to the North Atlantic Sea ? Or had she found the " River of Kings," Of which De Fonte told such strange things, In sixteen forty ? Never a sign, 108 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS East or west or under the line, They saw of the missing galleon ; Never a sail or plank or chip They found of the long-lost treasure-ship, Or enough to build a tale upon. But when she was lost, and where and how ? Are the facts we 're coming to just now. Take, if you please, the chart ot that day, Published at Madrid, por el Rey ; Look for a spot in the old South Sea, The hundred and eightieth degree Longitude west of Madrid : there, Under the equatorial glare, Just where the east and west are one, You '11 find the missing galleon, You '11 find the San Gregorio, yet Elding the seas, with sails all set, Fresh as upon the very day She sailed from Acapulco Bay. How did she get there ? What strange spell Kept her two hundred years so well, Free from decay and mortal taint ? What but the prayers of a patron saint ! A hundred leagues from Manilla town, The San Gregorio's helm came down , Hound she went on her heel, and not A cable's length from a galliot That rocked on the waters just abreast Of the galleon's course, which was west-sou'- west. Then, said the galleon's commandante, General Pedro Sobriente THE LOST GALLEON 109 (That was his rank on land and main, A regular custom of Old Spain), " My pilot is dead of scurvy : may I ask the longitude, time, and day ? " The first two given and compared ; The third the commandante stared ! " The first of June ? I make it second." Said the stranger, " Then you 've wrongly reckoned ; I make it first : as you came this way, You should have lost, d' ye see, a day ; Lost a day, as plainly see, On the hundred and eightieth degree." " Lost a day ? " " Yes ; if not rude, When did you make east longitude ? " " On the ninth of May, our patron's day." " On the ninth ? you had no ninth of May f Eighth and tenth was there ; but stay " Too late ; for the galleon bore away. Lost was the day they should have kept, Lost unheeded and lost unwept ; Lost in a way that made search vain, Lost in a trackless and boundless main;- Lost like the day of Job's awful curse, In his third chapter, third and fourth verse; Wrecked was their patron's only day, What would the holy Fathers say ? Said the Fray Antonio Estavan, The galleon's chaplain, a learned man, " Nothing is lost that you can regain ; And the way to look for a thing is plain, To go where you lost it, back again. Back with your galleon till you see The hundred and eightieth degree. 110 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS Wait till the rolling year goes round, And there will the missing day be found j For you '11 find, if computation 's true, That sailing East will give to you Not only one ninth of May, but two, One for the good saint's present cheer, And one for the day we lost last year." Back to the spot sailed the galleon ; Where, for a twelvemonth, off and on The hundred and eightieth degree She rose and fell on a tropic sea. But lo ! when it came to the ninth of May, All of a sudden becalmed she lay One degree from that fatal spot, Without the power to move a knot ; And of course the moment she lost her way, Gone was her chance to save that day. To cut a lengthening story short, She never saved it. Made the sport Of evil spirits and baffling wind, She was always before or just behind, One day too soon or one day too late, And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait. She had two Eighths, as she idly lay, Two Tenths, but never a Ninth of May ; And there she rides through two hundred years Of dreary penance and anxious fears ; Yet, through the grace of the saint she served, Captain and crew are still preserved. By a computation that still holds good, Made by the Holy Brotherhood, The San Gregorio will cross that line THE LOST GALLEON 111 In nineteen hundred and thirty -nine : Just three hundred years to a day From the time she lost the ninth of May. And the folk in Acapulco town, Over the waters looking down, Will see in the glow of the setting sun The sails of the missing galleon, And the royal standard of Philip Eey, The gleaming mast and glistening spar, As she nears the surf of the outer bar. A Te Deum sung on her crowded deck, An odor of spice along the shore, A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck, And the yearly galleon sails no more In or out of the olden bay ; For the blessed patron has found his day. Such is the legend. Hear this truth : Over the trackless past, somewhere, Lie the lost days of our tropic youth, Only regained by faith and prayer, Only recalled by prayer and plaint : Each lost day has its patron saint J IH. IN DIALECT "JIM" SAY there ! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild ? Well, no offense : Thar ain't no sense In gittin' riled ! Jim was my chum Up on the Bar : That 's why I come Down from up yar, Lookin' for Jim. Thank ye, sir ! You Ain't of that crew, Blest if you are ! Money ? Not much : That ain't my kind ; I ain't no such. Eum ? I don't mind, Seein' it 's you. Well, this yer Jim, Did you know him ? Jes' 'bout your size ; Same kind of eyes ; r JIM" 113 Well, that is strange : Why, it 'a two year . Since he came here, Sick, for a change. Well, here 's to us : Eh? The h you say ! Dead? That little cuss ? What makes you star*, You over thar ? Can't a man drop 's glass in yer shop But you must r'ar ? It would n't take D d much to break You and your bar. Dead! Poor little Jim I Why, thar was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben, No-account men : Then to take him ! Well, thar Good-by No more, sir I Eh? What 's that you say ? Why, dern it ! sho ! No ? Yes ! By Joe I Sold! 114 IN DIALECT Sold ! Why, you limb, You ornery, Derned old Long-legged Jim. CHIQUITA BEAUTIFUL ! Sir, you may say so. Thar is n't her match in the county ; Is thar, old gal, Chiquita, my darling, my beauty ? Feel of that neck, sir, thar 's velvet ! Whoa ! steady, ah, will you, you vixen ! Whoa ! I say. Jack, trot her out ; let the gentleman look at her paces. Morgan ! she ain't nothing else, and I 've got the papers to prove it. Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't buy her. Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of Tuolumne ? Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down in 'Frisco ? Hed n't no savey, hed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! that '11 do, quit that foolin' ! Nothin' to what she kin do, when she 's got her work cut out before her. Hosses is bosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is jockeys : And 't ain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows what a boss has got in him. Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan's leaders ? Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low water! 116 IN DIALECT Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his nevey Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water all round us ; Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Eattlesnake Creek just a-bilin', Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river. I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, Chiquita ; And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of the canon. Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chi- quita Buckled right down to her work, and, afore I could yell to her rider, Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and me standing, And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and a-driftin' to thunder ! Would ye b'lieve it ? That night, that hoss, that >ar filly, Chiquita, Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and dripping : Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, Just as she swam the Fork, that hoss, that 'ar filly, Chiquita. That 's what I call a hoss ! and What did you say ? Oh, the nevey ? Drownded, I reckon, leastways, he never kem back to deny it. CHIQUITA 117 Ye see the derned fool had no seat, ye could n't have made him a rider ; And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and bosses well, DOW'S FLAT (1856) Dow's FLAT. That 's its name ; And I reckon that you Are a stranger ? The same ? Well, I thought it was true, For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first view. It was called after Dow, Which the same was an ass, And as to the how Thet the thing kem to pass, Jest tie up your hoss to that, buckeye, and sit ye down here in the You see this 'yer Dow Hed the worst kind of luck ; He slipped up somehow On each thing thet he struck. Why, ef he 'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the denied thing 'd get up and buck. He mined on the bar Till he could n't pay rates ; He was smashed by a car When he tunneled with Bates ; And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five kids from the States. DOW'S FLAT 119 It was rough, mighty rough ; But the boys they stood by, And they brought him the stuff For a house, on the sly ; ind the old woman, well, she did washing, and took on when no one was nigh. But this 'yer luck of Dow's Was so powerful mean That the spring near his house Dried right up on the green ; And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen. Then the bar petered out, And the boys would n't stay ; And the chills got about, And his wife fell away ; But Dow in his well kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous way. One day, it was June, And a year ago, jest This Dow kem at noon To his work like the rest, With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and derringer hid in his breast. He goes to the well, And he stands on the brink, And stops for a spell Jest to listen and think : For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir !), you see, kinder made the cuss blink. 120 IN DIALECT His two ragged gals In the gulch were at play, And a gownd that was Sal's Kinder napped on a bay : Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all, as I 've heer'd the folks say. And That 's a peart hoss Thet you 've got, ain't it now ? What might be her cost ? Eh ? Oh ! Well, then, Dow Let 's see, well, that forty -foot grave was n't his, sir, that day, anyhow. For a blow of his pick Sorter caved in the side, And he looked and turned sick, Then he trembled and cried. For you see the dern cuss had struck " Water ? " Beg your parding, young man, there you lied! It was gold, in the quartz, And it ran all alike ; And I reckon five oughts Was the worth of that strike ; And that house with the coopilow 's his'n, which the same is n't bad for a Pike. Thet's why it 's Dow's Flat ; And the thing of it is That he kinder got that Through sheer contrairiness : For 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck made him certain to miss. DOW'S FLAT 121 Thet 's so ! Thar 's your way, To the left of yon tree ; But a look h'yur, say ? Won't you come up to tea ? No ? Well, then the next time you 're passin' ; and ask after Dow, ypk thet 's me. IN THE TUNNEL BID N'T know Flynn, Flynn of Virginia, Long as he 's been 'yar ? Look 'ee here, stranger, Whar hev you been ? Here in this tunnel He was my pardner, That same Tom Flynn, Working together, In wind and weather, Day out and in. Did n't know Flynn ! Well, that is queer ; Why, it 's a sin To think of Tom Flynn, -=* Tom with his cheer, Tom without fear, Stranger, look 'yar ! Thar in the drift, Back to the wall, He held the timbers Ready to fall ; Then in the darkness I heard him call : " Eun for your life, Jake ! Run for your wife's sake ! Don't wait for me." IN THE TUNNEL 123 And that was all Heard in the din, Heard of Tom Flynn, Flynn of Virginia. That 's all about Flynn of Virginia. That lets me out. Here in the damp, Out of the sun, That 'ar derned lamp Makes my eyes run. Well, there, I 'm done I But, sir, when you '11 Hear the next fool Asking of Flynn, Flynn of Virginia, Just you chip in, Say you knew Flynn ; Say that you "ve been 'ya& "CICELY" (ALKALI STATION) CICELY says you 're a poet ; maybe, I ain't much on rhyme : I reckon you'd give me a hundred, and beat me every time. Poetry ! that 's the way some chaps puts up an idee, But I takes mine "straight without sugar," and that's what 's the matter with me. Poetry ! just look round you, alkali, rqck, and sage ; Sage-brush, rock, and alkali ; ain't it a pretty page ! Sun in the east at mornin', sun in the west at night, And the shadow of this 'yer station the on'y thing moves in sight. Poetry ! Well now Polly ! Polly, run to your mam ; Kun right away, my pooty ! By-by ! Ain't she a lamb ? Poetry ! that reminds me o' suthin' right in that suit : Jest shet that door thar, will yer? for Cicely's ears is cute. Ye noticed Polly, the baby ? A month afore she was born, Cicely my old woman was moody-like and forlorn ; Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and trees ; Family man yourself, sir ? Well, you know what a woman be's. "CICELY" 125 Narvous she was, and restless, said that she " could n't stay." Stay ! and the nearest woman seventeen miles away. But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be on hand, And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o' land. One night, the tenth of October, I woke with a chill and a fright, For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn't in sight, But a note was pinned on the blanket, which it said that she " could n't stay," But had gone to visit her neighbor, seventeen miles away ! When and how she stampeded, I did n't wait for to see, For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she ; Eunning first this way and that way, like a hound that is off the scent, For there warn't no track in the darkness to tell me the way she went. I J ve had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this spot, Lost on the Plains in '50, drownded almost and shot ; But out on this alkali desert, a-hunting a crazy wife, Was ra'ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life. " Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! " I called, and I held my breath, And " Cicely ! " came from the canyon, and all was as still as death. And " Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! " came from the rocks below, And jest but a whisper of " Cicely ! " down from them peaks of snow. 126 - IN DIALECT I ain't what you call religious, but I jest looked up to the sky, And this 'yer 's to what I 'm coming, and maybe ye think Hie: But up away to the east'ard, yaller and big and far, I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of star. Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me : Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never see : Big and yaller and dancing, I never saw such a star, And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went for it then and thar. Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead j Keeping the star afore me, I went wherever it led. It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart an<* nigh, Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby's cry. Listen ! thar 's the same music ; but her lungs they are stronger now Than the day I packed her and her mother, I 'm derned if I jest know how. But the doctor kern the next minit, and the joke o' the whole thing is That Cis never knew what happened from that very night to this! But Cicely says you 're a poet, and maybe you might, some day, Jest sling her a rhyme 'bout a baby that was born in a curious way, And see what she says; and, old fellow, when you speak. of the star, don't tell As how 't was the doctor's lantern, for maybe 't won't sound so well. PENELOPE (SIMPSON'S BAB, 1858) So you 've kem 'yer agen, And one answer won't do ? Well, of all the derned men That I 've struck, it is you. Sal ! 'yer 's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavortin* round 'yer in the dew. Kem in, ef you will. Thar, quit ! Take a cheer. Not that ; you can't fill Them theer cushings this year, For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and they don't make such men about 'yer. He was tall, was my Jack, And as strong as a tree. Thar 's his gun on the rack, Jest you heft it, and see. And you come a courtin' his widder ! Lord ! where can that critter, Sal, be ! You 'd fill my Jack's place ? And a man of your size, With no baird to his face, Nor a snap to his eyes, And nary Sho ! thar ! I was foolin', I was, Joe, for sartain, don't rise. 128 IN DIALECT Sit down. Law ! why, sho ! I 'm as weak as a gal. Sal ! Don't you go, Joe, Or I '11 faint, sure, I shall. Sit down, anywheer, where you like, Joe, in that cheer, if you choose, Lord ! where 's Sal? PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES (TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870) WHICH I wish to 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 would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name ; And I shall not deny, In regard to the same, What that name might imply ; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise ; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand : It was Euchre. The same He did not understand ; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland. 130 IN DIALECT 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 packs, Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts ; And we found on his nails, which were taper 5 What is frequent in tapers, that 's wax. PLAIN LANGUAGE FKOM TRUTHFUL JAMES 131 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. THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS I BESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James ; I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games ; And I '11 tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to " put a head " on him. Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months' proceedings of that same Society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare ; And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules. Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault, It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault ; He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS 133 Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass, at least, to all intent ; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent. Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age ; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in. And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James ; And I 've told in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. LUKE (iN THE COLORADO PARK, 1873) WOT 's that you 're readin ' ? a novel ? A novel ! well, darn my skin ! You a man grown and bearded and histin' such stuff ez that in Stuff about gals and their sweethearts ! No wonder you 're thin ez a knife. Look at me ! clar two hundred and never read one in my life ! That 's my opinion o' novels. And ez to their lyin' round here, They belong to the Jedge's daughter the Jedge who came up last year On account of his lungs and the mountains and the balsam o' pine and fir; And his daughter well, she read novels, and that 's what 'a the matter with her. Yet she was sweet on the Jedge, and stuck by him day and night, Alone in the cabin up 'yer till she grew like a ghost, all white. She wus only a slip of a thing, ez light and ez up and away Ez rifle smoke blown through the woods, but she was n't my kind no way 1 LUKE 135 Speakin' o' gals, d'ye mind that house ez you rise the hill, A mile and a half from White's, and jist above Mattingly's mill? You do ? Well now thar 'a a gal ! What ! you saw her ? Oh, come now, thar ! quit ! She was only bedevlin' you boys, for to me she don't cotton one bit. Now she 's Avhat I call a gal ez pretty and plump ez a quail ; Teeth ez white ez a hound's, and they 'd go through a ten- penny nail ; Eyes that kin snap like a cap. So she asked to know " whar I was hid ? " She did ! Oh, it 's jist like her sass, for she 's peart ez a Katydid. But what was I talking of ? Oh ! the Jedge and his daughter she read Novels the whole day long, and I reckon she read them abed; And sometimes she read them out loud to the Jedge on the porch where he sat, And 't was how " Lord Augustus " said this, and how " Lady Blanche " she said that. But the sickest of all that I heerd was a yarn thet they read 'bout a chap, " Leather-stocking " by name, and a hunter chock full o' the greenest o' sap ; And they asked me to hear, but I says, " Miss Mabel, not any for me ; When I likes I kin sling my own lies, and thet chap and I should n't agree." 136 IN DIALECT Yet somehow or other that gal allus said that I brought her to mind Of folks about whom she had read, or suthin belike of thet kind, And thar warn't no end o' the names that she give me thet summer up here " Eobin Hood," " Leather-stocking," " Eob Boy," Oh, I tell you, the critter was queer ! And yet, ef she had n't been spiled, she was harmless enough in her way ; She could jabber in French to her dad, and they said that she knew how to play ; And she worked me that shot-pouch up thar, which the man does n't live ez kin use ; And slippers you see 'em down 'yer ez would cradle an Injin's papoose. Yet along o' them novels, you see, she was wastin' and mopin' away, And then she got shy with her tongue, and at last she had nothin' to say ; And whenever I happened around, her face it was hid by a book, And it warn't till the day she left that she give me ez much ez a look. And this was the way it was. It was night when I kem up here To say to 'em all "good-by," for I reckoned to go for deer At " sun up " the day they left. So I shook 'em all round by the hand, *Cept Mabel, and she was sick, ez they give me to under- stand. LUKE 137 But jist ez I passed the house next morning at dawn, some one, Like a little waver o' mist got up on the hill with the sun; Miss Mabel it was, alone all wrapped in a mantle o' lace And she stood there straight in the road, with a touch o' the sun in her face. And she looked me right in the eye I 'd seen suthin' like it before When I hunted a wounded doe to the edge o' the Clear Lake Shore, And I had my knee on its neck, and I jist was raisin' my knife, When it give me a look like that, and well, it got off with its life. " We are going to-day," she said, " and I thought I would say good-by To you in your own house, Luke these woods and the bright blue sky ! You 've always been kind to us, Luke, and papa has found you still As good as the air he breathes, and wholesome as Laurel Tree Hill. " And we '11 always think of you, Luke, as the thing we could not take away, The balsam that dwells in the woods, the rainbow that lives in the spray. And you '11 sometimes think of me, Luke, as you know you once used to say, A. rifle smoke blown through the woods, a moment, but never to stay." 138 IN DIALECT And then we shook hands. She turned, but a-suddent she tottered and fell, And I caught her sharp by the waist, and held her a mimfc. Well, It was only a minit, you know, thet ez cold and ez white she lay Ez a snowflake here on my breast, and then well, she melted away And was gone. . . . And thar are her books ; but I says not any for me ; Good enough may be for some, but them and I mightn't agree. They spiled a decent gal ez might hev made some chap a wife, And look at me ! clar two hundred and never read one in my life ! "THE BABES IN THE WOODS" (BIG PINE FLAT, 1871) " SOMETHING characteristic," eh ? Humph ! I reckon you mean by that Something that happened in our way, Here at the crossin' of Big Pine Flat. Times are n't now as they used to be, When gold was flush and the boys were frisky, And a man would pull out his battery For anything maybe the price of whiskey. Nothing of that sort, eh ? That 's strange ! Why, I thought you might be diverted Hearing how Jones of Red Rock Range Drawed his " hint to the unconverted," And saying, " Whar will you have it ? " shot Cherokee Bob at the last debating ! What was the question I forgot, But Jones did n't like Bob's way of stating. Nothing of that kind, eh ? You mean Something milder ? Let 's see ! Joe 2 Tell to the stranger that little scene Out of the " Babes in the Woods." You know, " Babes " was the name that we gave 'em, sir, Two lean lads in their teens, and greener Than even the belt of spruce and fir Where they built their nest, and each day grew leaner. 140 IN DIALECT No one knew where they came from. !None Cared to ask if they had a mother. Runaway schoolboys, maybe. One Tall ^nd dark as a spruce ; the other Blue and gold in the eyes and hair, Soft and low in his speech, but rarely Talking with us ; and we did n't care To get at their secret at all unfairly. For they were so quiet, so sad and shy, Content to trust each other solely, That somehow we 'd always shut one eye, And never seem to observe them wholly As they passed to their work. 'T was a worn-out claim, And it paid them grub. They could live without it, For the boys had a way of leaving game In their tent, and forgetting all about it. Yet no one asked for their secret. Dumb It lay in their big eyes' heavy hollows. It was understood that no one should come To their tent unawares, save the bees and swallows. So they lived alone. Until one warm night I was sitting here at the tent-door, so, sir ! When out of the sunset's rosy light Up rose the Sheriff of Mariposa. I knew at once there was something wrong, For his hand and his voice shook just a little, And there is n't much you can fetch along To make the sinews of Jack Hill brittle. " Go warn the Babes ! " he whispered, hoarse ; " Tell them I 'm coming to get and scurry j For I 've got a story that 's bad, and worse, I 've got a warrant : G d d n it, hurry ! n "THE BABES IN THE WOODS" 141 Too late ! they had seen him cross the hill ; I ran to their tent and found them lying Dead in each other's arms, and still Clasping the drug they had taken flying. And there lay their secret cold and hare, Their life, their trial the old, old story ! For the sweet "blue eyes and the golden hair Was a woman's shame and a woman's glory. Who were they ? " Ask no more, or ask The sun that visits their grave so lightly ; Ask of the whispering reeds, or task The mourning crickets that chirrup nightly. All of their life but its love forgot, Everything tender and soft and mystic, These are our Babes in the Woods, you 've got, Well human nature that 's characteristic. THE LATEST CHINESE OUTKAGE IT was noon by the sun ; we had finished our game, And was passin' remarks goin' back to our claim ; Jones was countin' his chips, Smith relievin' his mind Of ideas that a " straight " should beat " three of a kind," When Johnson of Elko came gallopin' down, With a look on his face 'twixt a grin and a frown, And he calls, " Drop your shovels and face right about, For them Chinees from Murphy's are cleanin' us out With their ching-a-ring-chow And their chic-colorow They're bent upon making No slouch of a row." Then Jones my own pardner looks up with a sigh ; " It 's your wash-bill," sez he, and I answers, " You lie ! " But afore he could draw or the others could arm, Up tumbles the Bates boys, who heard the alarm. And a yell from the hill-top and roar of a gong, Mixed up with remarks like " Hi ! yi ! Chang-a-wong," And bombs, shells, and crackers, that crashed through the trees, Eevealed in their war-togs four hundred Chinees ! Four hundred Chinee ; We are eight, don't ye see ! That made a square fifty To just one o' we. They were dressed in their best, but I grieve that that same Was largely made up of our own, to their shame ; THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE 143 And my pardner's best shirt and his trousers were hung On a spear, and above him were tauntingly swung ; While that beggar, Chey Lee, like a conjurer sat Pullin' out eggs and chickens from Johnson's best hat; And Bates's game rooster was part of their " loot," And all of Smith's pigs were skyugled to boot ; But the climax was reached and I like to have died When my demijohn, empty, came down the hillside, ' Down the hillside What once held the pride Of Robertson County Pitched down the hillside ! Then we axed for a parley. When out of the din To the front comes a-rockin' that heathen, Ah Sin ! " You owe flowty dollee me washee you camp, You catchee my washee me catchee no stamp ; One dollar hap dozen, me no catchee yet, Now that flowty dollee no hab ? how can get? Me catchee you piggee me sellee for cash, It catchee me licee you catchee no ' hash ; ' Me belly good Sheliff me lebbee when can, Me allee same halp pin as Melican man ! But Melican man He washee him pan On bottom side hillee And catchee how can ? " " Are we men ? " says Joe Johnson, " and list to this jaw, Without process of warrant or color of law ? Are we men or a-chew ! " here he gasped in his speech, For a stink-pot had fallen just out of his reach. " Shall we stand here as idle, and let Asia pour Her barbaric hordes on this civilized shore ? Has the White Man no country ? Are we left in the lurch? And likewise what 's gone of the Established Church ? 144 IN DIALECT One man to four hundred is great odds, I own, But this 'yer 's a White Man I plays it alone ! " And he sprang up the hillside to stop him none dare Till a yell from the top told a " White Man was there 1 " A White Man was there ! We prayed he might spare Those misguided heathens The few clothes they wear. They fled, and he followed, but no matter where ; They fled to escape him, the " White Man was there," Till we missed first his voice on the pine-wooded slope, And we knew for the heathen henceforth was no hope ; And the yells they grew fainter, when Petersen said, " It simply was human to bury his dead." And then, with slow tread, We crept up, in dread, But found nary mortal there, Living or dead. But there was his trail, and the way that they came, And yonder, no doubt, he was bagging his game. When Jones drops his pickaxe, and Thompson says Shoo ! " And both of 'em points to a cage of bamboo Hanging down from a tree, with a label that swung Conspicuous, with letters in some foreign tongue, Which, when freely translated, the same did appear Was the Chinese for saying, " A White Man is here 1 " And as we drew near, In anger and fear, Bound hand and foot, Johnson Looked down with a leer ! In his mouth was an opium pipe which was why He leered at us so with a drunken-like eye ! THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE 145 They had shaved off his eyebrows, and tacked on a cue, They had painted his face of a coppery hue, And rigged him all up in a heathenish suit, Then softly departed, each man with his " loot." Yes, every galoot. And Ah Sin, to boofc, Had left him there hanging Like ripening fruit. At a mass meeting held up at Murphy's next day There were seventeen speakers and each had his say ; There were twelve resolutions that instantly passed, And each resolution was worse than the last ; There were fourteen petitions, which, granting the same s Will determine what Governor Murphy's shall name ; And the man from our district that goes up next year Goes up on one issue that 's patent and clear : " Can the work of a mean, Degraded, unclean Believer in Buddha Be held as a lien?" TEUTHFUL JAMES TO THE EDITOR (YBEKA, 1873) WHICH it is not my style To produce needless pain By statements that rile Or that go 'gin the grain, But here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye has no skelp on his brain 1 On that Caucasian head There is no crown of hair ; It has gone, it has fled ! And Echo sez " Where ? " And I asks, " Is this Nation a White Man's, and is gener- ally things on the square ? " She was known in the camp As " Nye's other squaw," And folks of that stamp Hez no rights in the law, But is treacherous, sinful, and slimy, as Nye might hev well known before. But she said that she knew Where the Injins was hid, And the statement was true, For it seemed that she did, Since she led William where he was covered by seventeen Modocs, and slid ! TRUTHFUL JAMES TO THE EDITOR 147 Then they reached for his hair ; Bat Nye sez, " By the law Of nations, forbear ! I surrenders no more : And I looks to be treated, you hear me ? as a pris'ner, a pris'ner of war ! " But Captain Jack rose And he sez, " It 's too thin ! Such statements as those It 's too late to begin. There 's a Modoc indictment agin you, Paleface, and you 're goin' in ! " You stole Schonchin's squaw In the year sixty-two ; It was in sixty-four That Long Jack you went through, And you burned Nasty Jim's rancheria, and his wives and his papooses too. " This gun in my hand Was sold me by you 'Gainst the law of the land, And I grieves it is true ! " And he buried his face in his blanket and wept as he hid it from view. " But you 're tried and condemned, And skelping 's your doom," And he paused and he hemmed But why this resume ? He was skelped 'gainst the custom of nations, and cut off like a rose in its bloom. H8 IN DIALECT So I asks without guile, And I trusts not in vain, If this is the style That is going to obtain If here 's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye with no skelp on his brain ? AU IDYL OF THE KOAD (SIERRAS, 1876) DRAMATIS PERSONS First Tourist " Yuba Bill, Driver Second Tourist A Stranger FIRST TOURIST LOOK how the upland plunges in tx cover, Green where the pines fade sullenly away. "Wonderful those olive depths ! and wonderful, moreover- SECOND TOURIST The red dust that rises in a suffocating way. FIRST TOURIST Small is the soul that cannot soar above it, Cannot but cling to its ever-kindred clay : Better be yon bird, that seems to breathe and love it SECOND TOURIST Doubtless a hawk or some other bird of prey. Were we, like him, as sure of a dinner That on our stomachs would comfortably stay ; Or were the fried ham a shade or two just thinner, That must confront us at closing of the day : Then might you sing like Theocritus or Virgil, Then might we each make a metrical essay ; But verse just now I must protest and urge ill Fits a digestion by travel led astray. 150 IN DIALECT CHORUS OF PASSENGERS Speed, Yuba Bill ! oh, speed us to our dinner I Speed to the sunset that beckons far away. SECOND TOURIST William of Yuba, Son of Nimshi, hearken ! Check thy profanity, but not thy chariot's play. Tell us, William, before the shadows darken, Where, and, oh 1 how we shall dine ? William, say ! TUBA BILL It ain't my fault, nor the Kumpeney's, I reckon, Ye can't get ez square meal ez any on the Bay, Up at yon place, whar the senset 'pears to beckon Ez thet sharp allows in his airy sort o' way. Thar woz a place wor yer hash ye might hev wrestled, Kept by a woman ez chipper ez a jay Warm in her breast all the morning sunshine nestled 5 Eed on her cheeks all the evening's sunshine lay. SECOND TOURIST Praise is but breath, chariot compeller ! Yet of that hash we would bid yon farther say YUBA BILL Thar woz a snipe like you, a fancy tourist Kem to that ranch ez if to make a stay, Kan off the gal, and ruined jist the purist Critter that lived STRANGER (quietly) You r re a liar, driver I TUBA BILL (reaching for his revolver). Eh! Here take my lines, somebody AN IDYL OF THE EOAD 151 CHORUS OF PASSENGERS Hush, boys ! listen ! Inside there 's a lady ! Kemember ! No affray ! TUBA BILL Ef that man lives, the fault ain't mine or his'n. STRANGER Wait for the sunset that beckons far away, Then as you will ! But, meantime, friends, believe me, Nowhere on earth lives a purer woman ; nay, If my perceptions do surely not deceive me, She is the lady we have inside to-day. As for the man you see that blackened pine tree, Up which the green vine creeps heavenward away ! He was that scarred trunk, and she the vine that sweetly Clothed him with life again, and lifted SECOND TOURIST Yes ; but pray How know you this ? STRANGER She 's my wife. YUBA BILL The h 1! you say ! THOMPSON OF ANGELS IT is the story of Thompson of Thompson, the hero of Angels. Frequently drunk was Thompson, but always polite to the stranger ; Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his re- volver ; Great the mortality incident on that lightness and freedom. Yet not happy or gay was Thompson, the hero of Angels ; Often spoke to himself in accents of anguish and sorrow, "Why do I make the graves of the frivolous youth who in folly Thoughtlessly pass my revolver, forgetting its lightness and freedom ? ' Why in my daily walks does the surgeon drop his left eyelid, The undertaker smile, and the sculptor of gravestone marbles Lean on his chisel and gaze ? I care not o'er much for attention ; Simple am I in my ways, save but for this lightness and freedom." So spake that pensive man this Thompson, the hero of Angels, Bitterly smiled to himself, as he strode through the chap paral musing. THOMPSON OF ANGELS 153 " Why, oh, why ? " echoed the pines in the dark olive depth far resounding. Why, indeed ? " whispered the sage brush that bent 'neath his feet non-elastic. Pleasant indeed was that morn that dawned o'er the bar- room at Angels, Where in their manhood's prime was gathered the pride of the hamlet. Six " took sugar in theirs," and nine to the barkeeper lightly Smiled as they said, " Well, Jim, you can give us our regu- lar fusil." Suddenly as the gray hawk swoops down on the barnyard, alighting Where, pensively picking their corn, the favorite pullets are gathered, So in that festive bar-room dropped Thompson, the hero of Angels, Grasping his weapon dread with his pristine lightness and freedom. Never a word he spoke ; divesting himself of his garments, Danced the war-dance of the playful yet truculent Modoc, Uttered a single whoop, and then, in the accents of chal- lenge, Spake : " Oh, behold in me a Crested Jay Hawk of the mountain." Then rose a pallid man a man sick with fever and ague ; Small was he, and his step was tremulous, weak, and un-> certain ; Slowly a Derringer drew, and covered the person of Thomp- son ; Said in his feeblest pipe, " I 'm a Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley." 154 IN DIALECT As on its native plains the kangaroo, startled by hunters, Leaps with successive bounds, and hurries away to the thickets, So leaped the Crested Hawk, and quietly hopping behind him Ran, and occasionally shot, that Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley. Vain at the festive bar still lingered the people of Angels, Hearing afar in the woods the petulant pop of the pistol ; Never again returned the Crested Jay Hawk of the moun- tains, Never again was seen the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley. Yet in the hamlet of Angels, when truculent speeches are uttered, When bloodshed and life alone will atone for some trifling misstatement, Maidens and men in their prime recall the last hero of Angels, Think of and vainly regret the Bald-headed Snipe of the VaUey ! THE HAWK'S NEST (SIERRAS) WE checked our pace, the red road sharply rounding; We heard the troubled flow Of the dark olive depths of pines resounding A thousand feet helow. Above the tumult of the canon lifted, The gray hawk breathless hung, Or on the hill a winged shadow drifted Where furze and thorn-bush clung ; Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed With many a seam and scar ; Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed, A mole-hill seen so far. We looked in silence down across the distant Unfathomable reach : A silence broken by the guide's consistent And realistic speech. " Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters For telling him he lied ; Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos Across the Long Divide. "We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden, And 'cross the ford below, 156 IN DIALECT And up this canon (Peters' brother leadin'), And me and Clark and Joe. u He fou't us game : somehow I disremember Jest how the thing kern round ; Some say 't was wadding, some a scattered ember From fires on the ground. S( But in one minute all the hill below him Was just one sheet of flame ; Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him, And, well, the dog was game ! u He made no sign : the fires of hell were round him, The pit of hell below. We sat and waited, but we never found him ; And then we turned to go. " And then you see that rock that 's grown so bristlj With chapparal and tan Suthin crep' out : it might hev been a grizzly It might hev been a man ; " Suthin that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and shoutefl In smoke and dust and flame ; Suthin that sprang into the depths about it, Grizzly or man, but game ! " That 's all ! Well, yes, it does look rather risky, And kinder makes one queer And dizzy looking down. A drop of whiskey Ain't a bad thing right here ! HER LETTER I 'M sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance,, In a robe even you would admire, It cost a cool thousand in France j I 'm be-diamonded out of all reason, My hair is done up in a cue : In short, sir, " the belle of the season " Is wasting an hour upon you. A dozen engagements I 've broken ; I left in the midst of a set ; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits on the stairs for me yet. They say he '11 be rich, when he grows up,. And then he adores me indeed ; And you, sir, are turning your nose up, Three thousand miles off, as you read. " And how do I like my position ? " And what do I think of New York ? "And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk ? " " And is n't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that ? n " And are n't they a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat ? " Well, yes, if you saw us out driving Each day in the Park, four-in-hand. 158 IN DIALECT If you saw poor dear mamma contriving To look s'upernaturally grand, If you saw papa's picture, as taken By Brady, and tinted at that, You 'd never suspect he sold bacon And flour at Poverty Flat. And yet, just this moment, when sitting In the glare of the grand chandelier, In the bustle and glitter befitting The " finest soiree of the year," In the mists of a gaze de Chambery, And the hum of the smallest of talk, Somehow, Joe, I thought of the " Ferry," And the dance that we had on " The Fork } Of Harrison's barn, with its muster Of flags festooned over the wall ; Of the candles that shed their soft lustre And tallow on head-dress and shawl ; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis ; And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGeej Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go ; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow ; Of that ride that to me was the rarest j Of the something you said at the gate. Ah ! Joe, then I was n't an heiress To "the best-paying lead in the State." Well, well, it 's all past ; yet it 's funny To think, as I stood in the glare HER LETTER 159 Of fashion and beauty and money, That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat. But goodness ! what nonsense I 'm writing J (Mamma says my taste still is low), Instead of my triumphs reciting, I 'm spooning on Joseph, heigh-ho ! And I 'm to be " finished " by travel, Whatever 's the meaning of that. Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel In drifting on Poverty Flat ? Good-night ! here 's the end of my paper j Good-night ! if the longitude please, For maybe, while wasting my taper, Your sun 's climbing over the trees. But know, if you have n't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart 's somewhere there in the ditches, And you 've struck it, on Poverty Flat. HIS ANSWER TO "HER LETTER" (BEPQBTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES) BEING asked by an intimate party, Which the same I would term as a friend, Though his health it were vain to call hearty, Since the mind to deceit it might lend ; For his arm it was broken quite recent, And there 's something gone wrong with his lung, Which is why it is proper and decent I should write what he runs off his tongue. First, he says, Miss, he 's read through your letter To the end, and " the end came too soon ; " That a " slight illness kept him your debtor," (Which for weeks he was wild as a loon) ; That " his spirits are buoyant as yours is ; " That with you, Miss, he " challenges Fate," (Which the language that invalid uses At times it were vain to relate). And he says " that the mountains are fairer For once being held in your thought ; " That each rock " holds a wealth that is rarer Than ever by gold-seeker sought." (Which are words he would put in these pages, By a party not given to guile ; Though the claim not, at date, paying wages, Might produce in the sinful a smile.) HIS ANSWER TO "HER LETTER" 161 He remembers the ball at the Ferry, And the ride, and the gate, and the vow, And the rose that you gave him, that very Same rose he is " treasuring now." (Which his blanket he 's kicked on his trunk, Miss, And insists on his legs being free ; And his language to me from his bunk, Miss, Is frequent and painful and free.) He hopes you are wearing no willows, But are happy and gay all the while ; That he knows (which this dodging of pillows Imparts but small ease to the style, And the same you will pardon) he knows, Miss, That, though parted by many a mile, " Yet, were he lying under the snows, Miss, They 'd mel into tears at your smile." And " you '11 still think of him in your pleasures, In your brief twilight dreams of the past ; In this green laurel spray that he treasures, It was plucked where your parting was last j In this specimen, but a small trifle, It will do for a pin for your shawl." (Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle, Was his last week's " clean up," and his all.) He 's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss, Were it not that I scorn to deny That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss, In view that his fever was high ; But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive. And now, my respects, Miss, to you ; Which my language, although comprehensive, Might seem to be freedom, is true. 162 IN DIALECT For I have a small favor to ask you, As concerns a bull-pup, and the same, If the duty would not overtask you, You would please to procure for me, game ; And send per express to the Flat, Miss, For they say York is famed for the breed, Which, though words of deceit may be that, Miss, I '11 trust to your taste, Miss, indeed. P.S. Which this same interfering Into other folks' way I despise ; Yet if it so be I was hearing That it 's just empty pockets as lies Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers That, having no family claims, Here's my pile, which it's six hundred dollars, As is yours, with respects, TRUTHFUL JAMES. "THE EETUEN OF BELTS ARITJS" (MUD FLAT, i860) So you 're back from your travels, old fellow, And you left but a twelvemonth ago ; You 've hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon, Eugenie, and kissed the Pope's toe. By Jove, it is perfectly stunning, Astounding, ^ and all that, you know ; Yes, things are about as you left them In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago. The boys ! they 're all right, Oh ! Dick Ashley, He 's buried somewhere in the snow ; He was lost on the Summit last winter, And Bob has a hard row to hoe. You know that he 's got the consumption ? You did n't ! Well, come, that 's a go j I certainly wrote you at Baden, Dear me ! that was six months ago. I got all your outlandish letters, All stamped by some foreign P. 0. I handed myself to Miss Mary That sketch of a famous chateau. Tom Saunders is living at 'Frisco, They say that he cuts quite a show. You did n't meet Euchre-deck Billy Anywhere on your road to Cairo ? 164 IN DIALECT So you thought of the rusty old cabin, The pines, and the valley below, And heard the North Fork of the Yuba As you stood on the banks of the Po ? 'T was just like your romance, old fellow 5 But now there is standing a row Of stores on the site of the cabin That you lived in a twelvemonth ago. But it 's jolly to see you, old fellow, To think it 's a twelvemonth ago ! And you have seen Louis Napoleon, And look like a Johnny Crapaud. Come in. You will surely see Mary, You know we are married. What, no ? Oh, ay ! I forgot there was something Between you a twelvemonth ago. FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES (NYK'S FORD, STAXISLAUS, 1870) Do I sleep ? do I dream ? Do I wonder and doubt ? Are things what they seem ? Or is visions about ? Is our civilization a failure ? Or is the Caucasian played out ? Which expressions are strong ; Yet would feebly imply Some account of a wrong Not to call it a lie As was worked off on William, my pardner, And the same being W. Nye. He came down to the Ford On the very same day Of that lottery d rawed By those sharps at the Bay ; And he says to me, " Truthful, how goes it ? * I replied, " It is far, far from gay ; "For the camp has gone wild On this lottery game, And has even beguiled 'Injin Dick ' by the same." Then said Nye to me, " Injins is pizen: But what is his number, eh, James ? " 166 IN DIALECT I replied, " 7, 2, 9, 8, 4, is his hand ; " When he started, and drew Out a list, which he scanned ; Then he softly went for his revolver With language I cannot command. Then I said, " William Nye ! " But he turned upon me, And the look in his eye Was quite painful to see ; And he says, " You mistake ; this poor Injin I protects from such sharps as you be ! " I was shocked and withdrew ; But I grieve to relate, When he next met my view Injin Dick was his mate ; And the two around town was a-lying In a frightfully dissolute state. Which the war dance they had Eound a tree at the Bend Was a sight that was sad ; And it seemed that the end Would not justify the proceedings, As I quiet remarked to a friend. For that Injin he fled The next day to his band ; And we found William spread Very loose on the strand, With a peaceful-like smile on his features, And a dollar greenback in his hand ; FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES 167 Which the same, when rolled out, We observed, with surprise, Was what he, no doubt, Thought the number and prize Them figures in red in the corner, Which the number of notes specifies. Was it guile, or a dream ? Is it Nye that I doubt ? Are things what they seem ? Or is visions about ? Is our civilization a failure ? Or is the Caucasian played out ? AFTEK THE ACCIDENT (MOUTH OF THE SHAFT) WHAT I want is my husband, sir, And if you 're a man, sir, You '11 give me an answer, Where is my Joe ? Penrhyn, sir, Joe, Caernarvonshire. Six months ago Since we came here Eh ? Ah, you know ! Well, I am quiet And still, But I must stand here, And will ! Please, I '11 be strong, If you '11 just let me wait Inside o' that gate Till the news comes along. " Negligence ! " That was the cause ! Butchery ! Are there no laws, Laws to protect such as we ? Well, then ! I won't raise my voice. AFTER THE ACCIDENT 169 There, men ! I won't make no noise, Only you just let me be. Four, only four did he say Saved ! and the other ones ? Eh ? Why do they call ? Why are they all Looking and coming this way ? What 's that ? a message ? I '11 take it. I know his wife, sir, I '11 break it. " Foreman ! " Ay, ay ! " Out by and by, Just saved his life. Say to his wife Soon he '11 be free." Will I? God bless you! It's me! THE GHOST THAT JIM SAW WHY, as to that, said the engineer, Ghosts ain't things we are apt to fear ; Spirits don't fool with levers much, And throttle-valves don't take to such ; And as for Jim, What happened to him Was one half fact, and t' other half whim ! Running one night on the line, he saw A house as plain as the moral law Just by the moonlit bank, and thence Came a drunken man with no more sense Than to drop on the rail Flat as a flail, As Jim drove by with the midnight mail. Down went the patents steam reversed. Too late ! for there came a " thud." Jim cursed As the fireman, there in the cab with him, Kinder stared in the face of Jim, And says, "What now ? " Says Jim, " What now ! I 've just run over a man, that 's how ! " The fireman stared at Jim. They ran Back, but they never found house nor man, Nary a shadow within a mile. Jim turned pale, but he tried to smile, THE GHOST THAT JIM SAW 171 Then on he tore Ten mile or more, In quicker time than he 'd made afore. Would you believe it ! the very next night Up rose that house in the moonlight white, Out comes the chap and drops as before, Down goes the brake and the rest encore ; And so, in fact, Each night that act Occurred, till folks swore Jim was cracked. Humph ! let me see ; it 's a year now, 'most, That I met Jim, East, and says, " How 's your ghost ? n "Gone," says Jim ; " and more, it 's plain That ghost don't trouble me again. I thought I shook That ghost when I took A place on an Eastern line, but look ! " What should I meet, the first trip out, But the very house we talked about, And the selfsame man ! ' Well,' says I, ' I guess It 's time to stop this 'yer foolishness.' So I crammed on steam, When there came a scream From my fireman, that jest broke my dream . " You 've killed somebody ! ' Says I, ' Not much ! I 've been thar often, and thar ain't no such, And now I '11 prove it ! ' Back we ran, And darn my skin ! but thar was a man On the rail, dead, Smashed in the head ! Now I call that meanness ! " That 's all Jim said. "SEVENTY-NINE" (MR. INTERVIEWER INTERVIEWED) KNOW me next time when you see me, won't you, old smarty ? Oh, I mean you, old figger-head, just the same party ! Take out your pensivil, d n you ; sharpen it, do ! Any complaints to make ? Lots of 'em one of 'em 's you. You ! who are you, anyhow, goin' round in that sneakin' way ? Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say ? Look at it ; don't it look pooty ? Oh, grin, and be d d to you, do ! But if I had you this side o' that gratin,' I 'd just make it lively for you. How did I get in here ? Well what 'ud you give to know? 'T was n't by sneakin' round where I had n't no call to go ; 'T was n't by hangin' round a-spyin' unfortnet men. Grin ! but I '11 stop your jaw if ever you do that agen. Why don't you say suthin, blast you ? Speak your mind if you dare. Ain't I a bad lot, sonny ? Say it, and call it square. Hain't got no tongue, hey, hev ye ? Oh, guard ! here ? s a little swell A cussin' and swearin' and yellin', and bribin' me not to tell. SEVENTY-NINE 173 There ! I thought that 'ud fetch ye ! And you want to know my name ? " Seventy-nine " they call me, but that is their little game ; For I 'm werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can under- stand, And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in the land. For 't was all, sir, a put-up joh on a pore young man like me; And the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they could n't agree ; Ind I sed to the judge, sez I, Oh, grin ! it 's all right, my son ! But you 're a werry lively young pup, and you ain't to be played upon ! Wot 's that you got ? tobacco ? I 'm cussed but I thought 'twas a tract. Thank ye ! A chap t' other day now, lookee, this is a fact Slings me a tract on the evils o' keepin' bad company, As if all the saints was howlin' to stay here along o' we. No, I hain't no complaints. Stop, yes ; do you see that chap, Him standin' over there, a-hidin' his eyes in his cap ? Well, that man's stumick is weak, and he can't stand the pris'n fare ; For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar it ain't nowhere. Perhaps it 's his bringin' up ; but he 's sickenin' day by day, And he does n't take no food, and 1 7 m seein' him waste away. 174 IN DIALECT And it is n't the thing to see ; for, whatever he 's been and done, Starvation is n't the plan as he 's to he saved upon. For he cannot rough it like me ; and he hasn't the stamps, I guess, To huy him his extry grub outside o' the pris'n mess. And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I 've been sorter free, Would thank you ! But, say ! look here ! Oh, blast it ! don't give it to ME ! Don't you give it to me ; now, don't ye, don't ye, don't ! You think it's a put-up job; so I'll thank ye, sir, if you won't. But hand him the stamps yourself : why, he is n't even my pal; And, if it 's a comfort to you, why, I don't intend that he shall. THE STAGE-DRIVEK'S STOEY IT was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his back to the wheelers, Quietly flecking his whip, and turning his quid of tobacco ; While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the moonlight, We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco descending. " Danger ! Sir, I believe you, indeed, I may say, on that subject, You your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a wager. I have seen danger ? Oh, no ! not me, sir, indeed, I assure you : 'T was only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in yon wagon. " It was the Geiger Grade, a mile and a half from the summit : Black as your hat was the night, and never a star in the heavens. Thundering down the grade, the gravel and stones we sent flying Over the precipice side, a thousand feet plumb to the bottom. " Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling and creak- ing, Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank of the canon; 176 IN DIALECT Then, looking up the road, I saw, in the distance behind me, The off hind wheel of the coach, just loosed from its axle, and following. "One glance alone I gave, thjn gathered together my rib- bons, Shouted, and flung them, outspread, on the straining necks of my cattle ; Screamed at the top of my voice, and lashed the air in my frenzy, While down the Geiger Grade, on three wheels, the vehicle thundered. " Speed was our only chance, when again came the ominous rattle : Crack, and another wheel slipped away, and was lost in the darkness. Two only now were left ; yet such was our fearful momen- tum, Upright, erect, and sustained on two wheels, the vehicle thundered. " As some huge boulder, unloosed from its rocky shelf on the mountain, Drives before it the hare and the timorous squirrel, far leaping, So down the Geiger Grade rushed the Pioneer coach, and before it Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance of the danger impending. " But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to the level, Slipped from its axle a wheel ; so that, to be plain in my statement, THE STAGE-DRIVER'S STORY 177 A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the distance may be, We traveled upon one wheel, until we drove up to the station. " Then, sir, we sank in a heap ; but, picking myself from the ruins, I heard a noise up the grade ; and looking, I saw in the distance The three Avheels following still, like moons on the horizon whirling, Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at the side of the station. " This is my story, sir ; a trifle, indeed, I assure you. Much more, perchance, might be said but I hold him of all men most lightly Who swerves from the truth in his tale. No, thank you Well, since you are pressing, Perhaps I don't care if I do : you may give me the same, Jim, no sugar." A QUESTION OF PEIVILEGE REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES IT was Andrew Jackson Sutter who, despising Mr. Cutter for remarks he heard him utter in debate upon the floor, Swung him up into the skylight, in the peaceful, pensive twilight, and then keerlessly proceeded, makin' no account what we did To wipe up with his person casual dust upon the floor. Now a square fight never frets me, nor unpleasantness up- sets me, but the simple thing that gets me now the job is done and gone, And we 've come home free and merry from the peaceful cemetery, leavin' Cutter there with Sutter that mebbee just a stutter On the part of Mr. Cutter caused the loss we deeply mourn. Some bashful hesitation, just like spellin' punctooation might have worked an aggravation on to Sutter's mournful mind, For the witnesses all vary ez to wot was said and nary a galoot will toot his horn except the way he is in- clined. But they all allow that Sutter had begun a kind of mutter, when uprose Mr. Cutter with a sickening kind of ease, And proceeded then to wade in to the subject then pre- vadin' : " Is Profanity degradin' ? " in words like unto these : A QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE 179 tf Onlike the previous speaker, Mr. Sutter of Yreka, he was but a humble seeker and not like him a cuss " it was here that Mr. Sutter softly reached for Mr. Cutter, when the latter with a stutter said : " ac-customed to discuss." Then Sutter he rose grimly, and sorter smilin' dimly bowed onto the Chairman primly (just like Cutter ez could be !) Drawled " he guessed he must fall back as Mr. Cutter owned the pack as he just had played the Jack as " (here Cutter's gun went crack ! as Mr. Sutter gasped and ended) "every man can. But William Henry Pryor just in range of Sutter's fire here evinced a wild desire to do somebody harm, And in the general scrimmage no one thought if Sutter's " image " was a misplaced punctooation like the hole in Pry or' s arm. For we all waltzed in together, never carin' to ask whether it was Sutter or was Cutter we woz tryin' to abate. But we could n't help perceivin', when we took to inkstand heavin', that the process was relievin' to the sharp- ness of debate. So we 've come home free and merry from the peaceful cemetery, and I make no commentary on these simple childish games ; Things is various and human and the man ain't born of woman who is free to intermeddle with his pal'a intents and aims. THE THOUGHT-EEADEE OF ANGELS REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMBS 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 riy*r ! 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 wis to us ef 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 m5 an