Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 16

When and how she stampeded, I didn't wait for to see, For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she; Running 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'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.

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 I lie: 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, Keeping the star afore me, I went wherever it led.

It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and 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 kem 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 'twas the doctor's lantern,--for maybe 'twon't sound so well.

PENELOPE

(SIMPSON'S BAR, 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.

O 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.

Sit down. Law! why, sho!

I'm as weak as a gal.

Sal! Don't you go, Joe, Or I'll 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 despise.

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.

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, What is frequent in tapers,--that's wax.

Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar,-- Which the same I am free to maintain.

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games; And I'll 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 trespa.s.sing 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.

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an a.s.s,--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.