A Little Book of Western Verse Part 8

He sot the picture on the bar 'nd drew aside its curtain, Sayin', "I reckon you'll allow as how _that's_ art, f'r certain!"

And then we looked, with jaws agape, but nary word wuz spoken, And f'r a likely spell the charm uv silence wuz unbroken-- Till presently, as in a dream, remarked Three-Fingered Hoover: "Onless I am mistaken, this is Pettibone's shef doover!"

It wuz a face--a human face--a woman's, fair 'nd tender-- Sot gracefully upon a neck white as a swan's, and slender; The hair wuz kind uv sunny, 'nd the eyes wuz sort uv dreamy, The mouth wuz half a-smilin', 'nd the cheeks wuz soft 'nd creamy; It seemed like she wuz lookin' off into the west out yonder, And seemed like, while she looked, we saw her eyes grow softer, fonder,-- Like, lookin' off into the west, where mountain mists wuz fallin', She saw the face she longed to see and heerd his voice a-callin'; "Hooray!" we cried,--"a woman in the camp uv Blue Horizon!

Step right up, Colonel Pettibone, 'nd nominate your pizen!"

A curious situation,--one deservin' uv your pity,-- No human, livin', female thing this side of Denver City!

But jest a lot uv husky men that lived on sand 'nd bitters,-- Do you wonder that that woman's face consoled the lonesome critters?

And not a one but what it served in some way to remind him Of a mother or a sister or a sweetheart left behind him; And some looked back on happier days, and saw the old-time faces And heerd the dear familiar sounds in old familiar places,-- A gracious touch of home. "Look here," sez Hoover, "ever'body Quit thinkin' 'nd perceed at oncet to name his favorite toddy!"

It wuzn't long afore the news had spread the country over, And miners come a-flockin' in like honey-bees to clover; It kind uv did 'em good, they said, to feast their hungry eyes on That picture uv Our Lady in the camp uv Blue Horizon.

But one mean cuss from n.i.g.g.e.r Crick pa.s.sed criticisms on 'er,-- Leastwise we overheerd him call her Pettibone's madonner, The which we did not take to be respectful to a lady, So we hung him in a quiet spot that wuz cool 'nd dry 'nd shady; Which same might not have been good law, but it _wuz_ the right manoeuvre To give the critics due respect for Pettibone's shef doover.

Gone is the camp,--yes, years ago the Blue Horizon busted, And every mother's son uv us got up one day 'nd dusted, While Pettibone perceeded East with wealth in his possession, And went to Yurrup, as I heerd, to study his perfession; So, like as not, you'll find him now a-paintin' heads 'nd faces At Venus, Billy Florence, and the like I-talyun places.

But no sech face he'll paint again as at old Blue Horizon, For I'll allow no sweeter face no human soul sot eyes on; And when the critics talk so grand uv Paris 'nd the Loover, I say, "Oh, but you orter seen the Pettibone shef doover!"

THE WANDERER

Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, I found a sh.e.l.l, And to my listening ear the lonely thing Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing, Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.

How came the sh.e.l.l upon that mountain height?

Ah, who can say Whether there dropped by some too careless hand, Or whether there cast when Ocean swept the Land, Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day?

Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep, One song it sang,-- Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide, Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide,-- Ever with echoes of the ocean rang.

And as the sh.e.l.l upon the mountain height Sings of the sea, So do I ever, leagues and leagues away,-- So do I ever, wandering where I may,-- Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee.

1883.

TO A USURPER

Aha! a traitor in the camp, A rebel strangely bold,-- A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp, Not more than four years old!

To think that I, who've ruled alone So proudly in the past, Should be ejected from my throne By my own son at last!

He trots his treason to and fro, As only babies can, And says he'll be his mamma's beau When he's a "gweat, big man"!

You stingy boy! you've always had A share in mamma's heart; Would you begrudge your poor old dad The tiniest little part?

That mamma, I regret to see, Inclines to take your part,-- As if a dual monarchy Should rule her gentle heart!

But when the years of youth have sped, The bearded man, I trow, Will quite forget he ever said He'd be his mamma's beau.

Renounce your treason, little son, Leave mamma's heart to me; For there will come another one To claim your loyalty.

And when that other comes to you, G.o.d grant her love may shine Through all your life, as fair and true As mamma's does through mine!

1885.

LULLABY; BY THE SEA

Fair is the castle up on the hill-- Hushaby, sweet my own!

The night is fair, and the waves are still, And the wind is singing to you and to me In this lowly home beside the sea-- Hushaby, sweet my own!

On yonder hill is store of wealth-- Hushaby, sweet my own!

And revellers drink to a little one's health; But you and I bide night and day For the other love that has sailed away-- Hushaby, sweet my own!

See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep Ghostlike, O my own!

Out of the mists of the murmuring deep; Oh, see them not and make no cry Till the angels of death have pa.s.sed us by-- Hushaby, sweet my own!

Ah, little they reck of you and me-- Hushaby, sweet my own!

In our lonely home beside the sea; They seek the castle up on the hill, And there they will do their ghostly will-- Hushaby, O my own!

Here by the sea a mother croons "Hushaby, sweet my own!"

In yonder castle a mother swoons While the angels go down to the misty deep, Bearing a little one fast asleep-- Hushaby, sweet my own!

SOLDIER, MAIDEN, AND FLOWER

"Sweetheart, take this," a soldier said, "And bid me brave good-by; It may befall we ne'er shall wed, But love can never die.

Be steadfast in thy troth to me, And then, whate'er my lot, 'My soul to G.o.d, my heart to thee,'-- Sweetheart, forget me not!"

The maiden took the tiny flower And nursed it with her tears: Lo! he who left her in that hour Came not in after years.

Unto a hero's death he rode 'Mid shower of fire and shot; But in the maiden's heart abode The flower, forget-me-not.

And when _he_ came not with the rest From out the years of blood, Closely unto her widowed breast She pressed a faded bud; Oh, there is love and there is pain, And there is peace, G.o.d wot,-- And these dear three do live again In sweet forget-me-not.

'T is to an unmarked grave to-day That I should love to go,-- Whether he wore the blue or gray, What need that we should know?

"He loved a woman," let us say, And on that sacred spot, To woman's love, that lives for aye, We'll strew forget-me-not.

1887.