Chapter XI: How to Read Poetry (2)

Refrain:
But every night I watched the sky
To see the moon and stars go by
And wondered how the angels fly
And thought of Jim—My lucky Jim—
And what I’d give to have her mine
That I might worship at her shrine,
But she was his, I’d not repine—
Oh, how I envied—envied him.

Some secret grief Jim sought to hide;
Grew weak and weaker till he died
And though I grieved that it was so,
I could not weep to see him go,
For joy, not sorrow, filled my bowl:
’Twas mine the widow to console.
Though Jim was dead, I was alive
To bring sweet honey to the hive.
I married her, and in my glee
Was happy as a honey-bee:
I called her “kitten”—In nine days
My eyes were opened to her ways.

Refrain:
Now every night I watch the sky
To see the moon and stars go by
And wonder how the angels fly
And think of Jim—my lucky Jim:
Deep lines of sorrow mar my face
As time goes on with lagging pace
Oh, how I long to take his place
Oh, how I envy—envy him.

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE WHISTLING BOY

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

What music like the whistle of a well-contented boy,—
That rhythmic exhalation of an ever-present joy?
Though the fragmentary cadence of a plain, untutored art,
’Tis the melody of childhood, ’tis a psalm from out the heart.
You will never find a criminal behind an honest smile;
And the boy ne’er grows a villain who keeps whistling all the while,—
Though he whistle out of tune.

What cares he for fickle fortune,—what the fashion may bestow?
In his little barefoot kingdom royalty in rags may go.
With an apple in his pocket and another in his mouth,
Cares not how the wind is blowing, whether north or whether south;
For he has no crops a-growing, has no ships upon the sea;
And he keeps right on a-whistling, whate’er the tune may be,—
For he whistles out of tune.

’Tis the early smile of Summer creeping o’er the face of June,
Even though this crude musician many times is off the tune,
Till it bears the same resemblance to the melody that’s meant,
That his garments do to trousers little matter how they’re rent.
When he’s very patriotic then his tune is sure to be—
Although a bit rebellious—“My Country, ’Tis of Thee!”
Which he whistles out of tune:
(America.)

Such a vision of good nature in his cheery, smiling face;
Better clothes would check his freedom, rob him of his rustic grace;
So he feels a trifle awkward in his brand-new Sunday clothes,
While repeating to his teacher all the Scripture that he knows.
Out of Sunday school he rushes, takes his shoes off on the sly;
Says: “The angels all go barefoot in the sweeter by and by!”
Which he whistles out of tune:
(Sweet By and By.)

Sometimes whistling for his playmate; sometimes whistling for his dog,
On the quiet, in the schoolhouse, to perplex the pedagogue;
Sometimes whistling up his courage; often whistling just because.
In the South he whistles “Dixie” o’er and o’er, without a pause,
Till he’s out of breath completely, when it seems to be, perchance,
But a knickerbocker whistle, since it comes in little pants,—
For he whistles out of tune:
(Dixie.)

Should he hail from old New England you may safely bet your life
He can whittle out a whistle with his broken-bladed knife.
He will play his cornstalk fiddle, and his dog will never fail
To show appreciation, beating _tempo_ with his tail;
Then he whistles “Yankee Doodle” like the tunes you often hear
On the old farmhouse piano when the sister plays by ear,—
For he whistles out of tune:
(Yankee Doodle.)

There is many a weeping mother longing, morning, night, and noon,
For her boy to come back whistling just the fragment of a tune;
But he’s yonder entertaining all the angels unaware
With a melody so human they’re bound to keep him there;
For all that heavenly music nothing sounds to them so sweet
As that cheery, boyish whistle and the patter of his feet,—
For he whistles all in tune:
(Nearer, My God, to Thee.)

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE LITTLE PEACH

BY EUGENE FIELD

A little peach in the orchard grew,—
A little peach of emerald hue;
Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew,
It grew.

One day, passing that orchard through,
That little peach dawned on the view
Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue—
Them two.

Up at that peach a club they threw—
Down from the stem on which it grew
Fell that peach of emerald hue.
Mon Dieu!

John took a bite and Sue a chew,
And then the trouble began to brew,—
Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue.
Too true!

Under the turf where the daisies grew
They planted John and his sister Sue,
And their little souls to the angels flew,—
Boo hoo!

What of that peach of the emerald hue,
Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew?
Ah, well, its mission on earth is through.
Adieu!

LITTLE BILLEE

BY W. M. THACKERAY

There were three sailors of Bristol city
Who took a boat and went to sea.
But first with beef and captain’s biscuits
And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,
And the youngest he was little Billee.
Now when they got as far as the Equator
They’d nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
“I am extremely hungaree.”
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,
“We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.”

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
“With one another we shouldn’t agree!
There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender,
We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.

“Oh! Billy we’re going to kill and eat you,
So undo the button of your chemie.”
When Bill received this information
He used his pocket-handkerchie.

“First let me say my catechism,
Which my poor mammy taught me.”
“Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling Jimmy,
While Jack pulled off his snickersnee.

So Billy went up to the main-top gallant mast,
And down he fell, on his bended knee.
He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment
When up he jumps. “There’s land I see:

“Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee;
There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor,
With Admiral Napier, K. C. B.”

So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee;
But as for little Bill he made him
The Captain of a seventy-three.

A GALLANT THIRD PARTY

BY LITTELL MCCLUNG

A wooer, a maid and the moon,
And a starry night, you’ll allow,
Let’s say in August or June,
Though it hardly matters just now.

The man in the moon peered down
With a jealous eye on the pair,
And his face was dark with a frown,
For the girl was bewitchingly fair.

“Just one,” begged the lover. “Please, dear,
Don’t you see I love only you?
And nobody’s looking, don’t fear;
And you know that I’ll ever be true.”

But the maid saw the man in the moon,
And she hardly knew how to reply;
Maybe she might pretty soon;
Yet maybe she oughtn’t to try.

But the chap in the sky was a brick,
And he saw that he shouldn’t be seen,
So he gathered a cloud, black and thick,
And set it up quick as a screen.

A TRAGIC STORY

There lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore;
But wondered much and sorrowed more
Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case,
And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place,
And have it hanging at his face,
Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, “The mystery I’ve found,
I’ll turn me round.” He turned him round;
But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in,
All day the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain it mattered not a pin,
The pigtail hung behind him.

And right, and left, and round about,
And up, and down, and in and out,
He turned; but still the pigtail stout
Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twist, and twirl, and tack,
Alas! still faithful to his back
The pigtail hangs behind him.

THE POOR LITTLE BIRDIES

BY A. J. WATERHOUSE

The poor little birdies that sleep in the trees,
Going rockaby, rockaby, lulled by the breeze;
The poor little birdies, they make me feel bad,
Oh, terribly, dreadfully, dismally sad,
For—think of it, little one; ponder and weep—
The birdies must stand when they sleep, when they sleep;
And their poor little legs—
I am sure it is so—
They ache, and they ache,
For they’re weary, you know.
And that is the reason that far in the night
You may hear them say “Dear-r-r!” if you listen just right,
For the poor little birdies must sleep on the bough,
And they want to lie down, but they do not know how.

Just think of it, darling; suppose you must stand
On those little brown legs, all so prettily planned;
Suppose you must stand when you wanted to sleep,
I am sure you would call for your mamma and weep,
And your poor little legs, they would cramp, I have guessed,
And your poor little knees, they would call for a rest;
And you’d cry, I am sure,
For so weary you’d be;
And you’d want to lie down,
But you couldn’t, you see.
And that is the reason why we should feel bad
For the poor little birdies, who ought to be glad;
For they want to lie down as they sleep on the bough;
They want to lie down, but they don’t know how.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission.

THE FUNERAL AT PARADISE BAR

BY PAUL SHOUP

About four o’clock in the morning, Uncle Hank Witherspoon would climb up on the box while the sun was tossing a few experimental shafts of light across the canyon, and, watching with pride and satisfaction the leaders dancing little dust clouds out of the stage road, would remark to bystanders who turned up their coat collars and talked politics to keep warm: “Some men are born hostlers; you see it by the way they lifts a hoss’s foot; some _sabes_ how to ride, and most gin’r’lly they overruns their boots’n their spurs is bright; and then there be others that are fine at hoofin’ it and lambastin’ a pack train with a rawhide an’ one hundred choice selections from two langidges; but as for me, my special speci-ality is just plain drivin’ of a stage; a stage with four hosses; just that and nothin’ more.” With that Uncle Hank would loosen his whip, the leaders would rear like chargers on a monument, the wheel horses would gather their feet under them—and down the road, pitching, swaying, leaving behind them a wall of dust, would go the famous Mokelumne stage, while half the population of Paradise Bar—they were early risers in the camp—would stand with hands in pockets, staring after in silent admiration. Uncle Hank was wiry and grizzled and storm-beaten; his pointed beard stood out at a strong angle to his determined nose; his eyes were of a mild and pleasant blue, but the fire in them awaited only the flint. His laugh was merry, but he had a voice that would make the most obstreperous horse remember that he was but as the dust of the earth before this master.

Uncle Hank was at the helm of the transportation system of Paradise Bar; he and his stage the connecting link between camp and civilization, the latter represented by the county seat, Meadow Lark.

Uncle Hank, recognizing his importance in both communities, and especially in Paradise Bar, was as gracious as an only hope—he was never forlorn. He was an absolute dictator, it was true; he even decided the locations of the passengers on the stage, and settled disputes as to outside and inside. But he was autocratic wisely, and there was really no reason why he should have been called upon to divide his sovereignty. Yet, one sad day the Alladin Bonanza Company built a lumber road down from Paradise Bar to Lone Pine. At Lone Pine the new road connected with the line of the Gray Eagle Stage Company, which, as Uncle Hank put it, flopped its way up from Meadow Lark. So, when the Gray Eagle extended its tri-weekly service from Lone Pine to Paradise Bar, trouble outcropped on Uncle Hank’s trail at once. George William Pike, of the Upper Basin, was the driver to whom Uncle Hank referred as the dry goods clerk who handled the ribbons for the opposition corporation.

George William surmised here and there and elsewhere, when he cornered an audience, that the new route was two miles the shorter, and the grade, calculating ups and downs, at least five per cent better. The report reached Uncle Hank by air line, of course. He was silent a little while, and then with elaborate courtesy thanked his informant, adding that he was greatly obliged, not for the news itself, but because he had for a long time been trying to recollect the name of the chap who left Placerville after trying circumstances without advising his bondsmen. It was indeed strange that a man caught stealing garments from a poor washerwoman’s clothes line should be directing horses; remarkably odd, when it was evident that he was cut out for a Chinaman and not a stage driver. So saying, Uncle Hank awoke an echo unusually far off, making it jump startled from the hillside at the crack of his whip, and drove on.

There was some difference of opinion in Paradise Bar concerning the merits of the two lines; so long as they ran on different days and at different hours, the question could not be satisfactorily settled, and the Bright Light kept open an hour later in the evening to permit a full discussion of the subject—thereby saving shutting up at all. The real trouble began when the Gray Eagle line, perceiving that Uncle Hank continued to carry the larger part of the business, borrowed his schedule and started to operate upon it with their new yellow coach with vermillion trimmings and four white horses, to say nothing of George William Pike with his curled mustache, red necktie and stand-up collar. He would have worn a silk hat too—the owners of the line were aristocrats, with ideas and winter residences in Lunnon—but Morosin’ Jones who squirmed his shoulders and clasped his hands like an awkward maid of fifteen when he talked, begged him to desist; he, Morosin’, had such an unconquerable inclination to perforate high hats with his forty-four wherever they might be. George William wisely desisted. Uncle Hank’s stage had nothing but a faint recollection of paint, and was written over with history recorded by bullet holes; the harness was apt to be patched, and Nebuchadnezzar, the off leader, was wall-eyed, and his partner, Moloch, sway-backed and short maned. Of the wheel horses, one was a gray with hoofs that needed constant paring; the other had the appearance of a whitewashed house at which mud had been flung with startling effect. Of the two, Rome and Athens, no god could have decided which was entitled to the palm of ugliness; but Uncle Hank, who loved them all with the love a man may have for a homely dog, declared that the wheel-horses were beauty spots in nature alongside the leaders.

It was a memorable morning on which the two stages left Paradise Bar together. The yellow stage, with its nickel-plated harness and white horses and tan-gloved driver, started three minutes first; and then, as if gathering up his horses and the stage and the reins altogether, Uncle Hank went down the line. It was a lively experience for the passengers; bends they went around on two wheels, creeks they took at a leap, bowlders and ruts only they avoided, and that because a scientist was using his science. The grade of the other line must have been at that time very good, for Uncle Hank had been only four minutes hitched in front of the Elysium Hotel when the other stage drew up. It was true that he picked his teeth as if he had been in to lunch, and casually enquired of a passenger, so that George William might hear, if they had stopped for dinner on the road, or did they expect to get it at the hotel; whereat the passenger, jolted and jarred beyond good manners, roared: “Stop for dinner! Great Scott! We stopped for nothing—bowlders, rivers, landslides and precipices; if his Satanic Majesty was after us, he found the worst trail he ever traveled—and I can’t imagine what other reason there could be for such driving.”

The passenger went into the hotel. George William said something below his breath, and Uncle Hank smiled. Alas for vanity! Ever it goes before a stumble, a broken spring or a sick horse. The stages had different schedules for the upward trip, but on the next journey downward disaster overtook Uncle Hank. Seven of the nine hours’ ride were accomplished, and the stage was at the mouth of the canyon. Here a point of rock thrusts itself forward, marking a sharp turn in the road. Around this turn galloped the horses, and twenty feet before him, sunning itself in the road, Moloch saw an eleven-button rattler. He knew what that meant, and sat down and slid with all four feet plowing the mountain road. They stopped short of the snake, that had coiled and awaited their coming, and then perceiving the enemy otherwise engaged, had wisely slipped into the manzanitas by the roadside. Fifteen precious minutes were used in repairing the disaster to the harness—and the race was lost. That night, for the first time in the ten years in which he had been the oracle of two communities, Uncle Hank, instead of telling stories and expounding wisdom for the benefit of the unenlightened below, went up to his room immediately after dinner and retired without lighting his candle. George William put on a new pink necktie and his beloved silk hat, and went about, stepping high like one of his white horses, but casting wary glances abroad for the appearance of one Morosin’ Jones, who was coy and fidgety and could perforate a dollar at one hundred feet.

In Paradise Bar every game was settled by the best two out of three. Life was too feverish and too short to await three out of five, and it was against the principles of the camp to leave any questions undecided. Therefore, it was tacitly understood that the winner of the next race would be the standard of comparison thereafter in matters pertaining to travel. Other stage lines would be second-class, ranking just above a mule train. There was another reason: Paradise Bar was exceedingly fond of excitement, but it had no mind to risk its neck in stage racing down the mountain-side forever and ever; precipices yawned too many invitations. The personal feeling and the betting both heavily favored Uncle Hank, both gratifying and troubling to him.

There is little doubt that in the third race, under fair conditions, Uncle Hank would have won; he would either have won or gone over a precipice. But Rome, who had never before been known to have anything the matter with him save an abnormal appetite for grain, fell slightly lame. All day before the race, Uncle Hank worried over this, all night he tossed in his blankets, and was only partly relieved the next day when Rome appeared again to be all right, and ate hay as if under the impression that the sun was shining and there was plenty more being made. The last two days had greatly changed Uncle Hank; he carried his head so that his beard touched his breast; his hat was slouched low over his eyes; he kept his hands in his pockets and spoke in monosyllables. He ate little and had a far-away look in his blue eyes. He saw his fame departing, his reputation collapsing, all that a man may build in this life, whether he creates empires or digs post-holes, crumbling—the reputation of “being onto his job.”

The next morning with the fear of that lameness in his heart, Uncle Hank hitched up and drove down the main street. He saw the yellow stage also ready. There was no evidence of lameness in Rome as he drove up to the door of the express office, nor when the stage stopped at the Record Nugget for the hotel passengers. Uncle Hank’s despondent face became more cheerful; he looked older and grayer and even bent a little that morning, but he climbed up on the box with his old-time energy. His courage and spirit were never to be doubted; only that lameness in Rome worried him. He gathered up the lines and loosened his whip; but the four did not go with their accustomed dashing display. Instead there was confusion and hesitation; in fifteen yards the slight lameness of the right wheel horse was apparent, and Uncle Hank drew up. He dropped the lines, and for a moment his face was in his hands.

The other stage had gone. Nothing could ever convince the public satisfactorily, he thought, that after starting he had not given up the race through fear. The limp was scarcely apparent. He perhaps would not have noticed it for some miles had it not been for his haunting dread and the false start. Yet he knew what it would mean before the level was reached—a steep down grade and he would have to go walking into Meadow Lark, a loser by an hour.

Uncle Hank, a broken old man, climbed down from the stage. “Take ’em, George,” he said to the hostler. “There won’t be no stage down to-day.” He said no more, but passed amid a dead silence along the road through the population of Paradise Bar which had turned out to see the beginning of the deciding race. Some guessed at the reason; and to all it became apparent when the horses were taken back to the stable and carefully examined. That day Uncle Hank did not appear, nor the next; So Bob Allen went up to his cabin in the evening and, receiving no response to his knocking, kicked open the door and went in. Uncle Hank lay in his bunk, his face to the wall. To Bob’s expressions of sympathy and encouraging remarks, he made no reply; they were to him as the expressions engraved on tombstones, and but added bitterness now. To his arguments, Uncle Hank vouchsafed single words in return, and never turned his face from the wall. From sympathy to argument, from argument he drifted into bulldozing; alluded to Uncle Hank as a man afraid of things, among which he specified a large number in language that I will not reproduce; and when three connected words was the most he could get out of Uncle Hank even by this, Bob knew the case was desperate, and retired, defeated.

The friends of Uncle Hank, the entire population of Paradise Bar, gravely discussed the situation. It was unanimously decided that the yellow stage should thereafter stop outside of the camp limits, and Morosin’ Jones publicly announced, his shoulders working up and down most nervously, that George William would immediately cease from wearing stand-up collars and red neckties; he would come into camp with a slouch hat, a flannel shirt and teamster’s warranted-to-wear gloves—or it was quite likely he would never go out again. This statement met with the silent approval of the entire assemblage; and George William, hearing of it, puzzled and bewildered, wisely refrained from coming into the camp limits at all, but remained by the stage. He explained in Meadow Lark that Paradise Bar had gone crazy; and a cheerful miner from that camp acquiesced, but added that some of the lunatics were not yet corralled, but still straying about; and said it looking so significantly at George William that the latter went home and hunted up a flannel shirt at once.

The next morning a committee waited on Uncle Hank, prepared with arguments that would show him the error of broken-heartedness—the easiest thing in the world to cure if its victims would but live to tell us of it. Uncle Hank still lay with his face to the wall, and in a little while the news was abroad in the camp that Uncle Hank, still with his face to the wall, had resolutely died. It was a gray day in Paradise Bar; the melodion in the Red Light was hushed; friends nodded instead of speaking as they passed by; the camp began to realize what it had lost. It was determined, as a last mark of the camp’s esteem for Uncle Hank, to make the journey to the place of the final tie-up simple but impressive. No formal meeting was held; the boys just gathered together and acted on a common idea. The whole camp would be in the procession, and they would go down to Meadow Lark over the old familiar road. Uncle Hank’s stage carrying the old stage-driver, would be at the head, of course; then there was an awkward pause. More than one felt that it would add to the dignity of the occasion to have two stages, but finally, when Major Wilkerson arose and suggested that the Gray Eagle stage, carrying leading citizens, be placed next, there was a murmur of dissent. Then Bob Allen arose in his place and made the only known speech of his life:

“Friends, you are on the wrong trail and will hit a blind canyon, certain. Of course we should have the other stage, and Pike to drive it. Uncle Hank wasn’t the kind of a man to carry jealousy with him into camp. ’Twasn’t being beat by Pike that broke Uncle Hank’s heart; it was partly p’haps being beat at all, and partly, to my way of thinkin’, because Paradise Bar didn’t stand behind him. That was the main reason, gentlemen; he just died of pure lonesomeness. When this yaller ve-hicle comes into camp, does we say to it: ‘You’re purty and you’re new, and probably your springs is all right and maybe your road; but you might jest as well pass on. Do you observe this old stage with its paint wore off and its bullet holes? Do you see that it’s down a little on one side and some of the spokes is new and some are old? Do you know that these four old hosses have been whoopin’ her up for Paradise Bar and for nothin’ else these ten years—and a sunshiny day and one chuck full of snow and sleet was all the same to them? Be you aware that this is our Uncle Hank, and that he has been workin’ our lead for us these fifteen years, and never lost a dollar or a pound of stuff or spilled a passenger, or asked one of the boys to hoof it because he hadn’t no _dinero_? Those bullet holes—men behind masks made ’em, but Uncle Hank never tightened a ribbon for the whole caboodle. The paint’s been knocked off that stage in our service, and it’s ours. Therefore, though you be yaller and handsome, with consid’ble silver plate, we can’t back you against our own flesh and blood. And that settles it.’ Did we talk that way, boys? No, we jest stood off and gambled on the result as if Uncle Hank was a travelin’ stranger ’stead of the best friend we had. We stood off impartial like and invited the white hoss outfit to git in and win if it could. And now, gentlemen, have we got the nerve to dynamite this opposition stage line, when the whole gang of us ought to be blown sky high?

“Uncle Hank wouldn’t have had it so. He didn’t cherish any ill feeling pussonly against anybody; whatever he said was because they was takin’ away from him what he had worked all his life for. He wasn’t jealous of George William, but of him as a stage driver, because we made him so. Boys, he loved us and was mighty proud of our regard—and we didn’t show it in the time of trial. And he’s gone over the great divide with tears in his eyes, and we are to blame. Who among any of us poor fools has a right to say that the other stage shouldn’t follow?”

Bob sat down amid absolute silence, wiping his face vigorously. Major Wilkerson rose to his feet. “I renew my suggestion,” said he, “that we have the Gray Eagle stage. I think you’ll all agree that Bob’s right.”

Morosin’ Jones rose from his stump, suffused with emotion. “In course he’s right,” he said, huskily, “but the stage ou’t to be painted black.” A murmur of assent greeted this speech.

* * * * *

The day was beautiful. The procession went slowly down the old stage road, past Lime Point, through the Roaring River canyon, beyond up Reddy’s grade, over the First Summit and then through Little Forest to the watering-place at the head of the last canyon. Every stream, every tree, every rock along the road was known to Uncle Hank. He was going home over a familiar way. The pine trees, with their somber green, were silent; the little streams that went frolicking from one side of a canyon to another seemed subdued; it was spring, but the gray squirrels were not barking in the tree-tops, and the quail seemed to pipe but faintly through the underbrush. The lupines and the bluebells nodded along the way; the chipmunks stood in the sunlight and stared curiously.

All would have gone well had not George William Pike been a man without understanding—and such a man is beyond redemption. He did not appreciate the spirit of the invitation to join in this last simple ceremony in honor of Uncle Hank. He accepted it as an apology from Paradise Bar and growled to himself because of the absurd request to paint the coach black—which he would not have done except for an order from the superintendent, who was a man of policy. A year could have been wasted in explaining that the invitation was an expression of humility and of atonement for the camp’s treatment of its own. So he came and wore his silk hat and his red necktie, and Morosin’ Jones almost had a spasm in restraining himself.

Down the mountain-side they went, slowly and decorously. Nothing eventful happened until the mouth of the canyon was cleared, and then George William became impatient. He could not understand the spirit of the occasion. Meadow Lark and supper were a long way off, and the luncheon at Half-Way House had been light. So he began making remarks over his horses’ heads with the intention of hurrying up Gregg, who was driving the old stage. “Well fitted for this kind of work, those horses, ain’t they?” he said. “Seems curious they were ever put on the stage.” Gregg said nothing, but tightened rein a bit. “Where will we stop for the night?” asked George William presently, flicking the off leader’s ear with his whip.

Gregg turned around angrily. “If you don’t like the way this thing is bein’ done, you can cut and go on in town alone; but if you don’t keep your mouth closed there’ll be trouble.”

“I don’t want to go into town alone,” rejoined George William pleasantly, “but I reckon we’d go in better fashion if we was at the head of this percession.”

“Maybe you’d better try it,” said Gregg, reddening, and thereupon George William turned out his four white horses and his black stage, without saying anything to his two passengers, and proceeded to go around. Gregg gathered in the slack in his reins. “Go back!” he roared. But Pike, swinging wide to the right to avoid the far-reaching whip, went on. Nebuchadnezzar pricked up his ears. Rome looked inquiringly at Athens, and Moloch snorted indignantly. Athens’ expression said very plainly: “Are we at our time of life going to permit four drawing-room apologies for horses and a new-fangled rattletrap to pass us on our own road?” The negative response could be seen in the quiver that ran down each horse’s back. The leaders gently secured their bits between their teeth. So absorbed was Gregg in the strange actions of George William that he paid little attention to his own horses.

Up and down the line behind him men were waving and gesticulating and shouting. “Don’t let him pass you!” yelled Wilkerson. That instruction ran up and down the line, clothed in a variety of picturesque and forcible utterances. But no instruction was needed by the horses in front of Gregg. They understood, and scarcely had the other stage turned into the main road ahead when they at one jump broke from a walk into a gallop. George William saw and gave his four the rein and the whip. Glancing back, Gregg watched the whole procession change from a line of decorous dignity to one of active excitement. Dust began to rise, men on horseback passed men on mules; men in buckboards passed men on lumber wagons. George William held the road, and with it a great advantage. To pass him it would be necessary to go out among the rocks and the sage-brush, and the white four were racing swiftly, rolling out behind them a blinding cloud of dust. Gregg set his teeth, and spoke encouragingly to his horses. George William turned and shouted back an insult: “You needn’t hurry; we’ll tell them you’ll be there to-morrow. ’Tend to your new business; there is nothing in the other for you. We’re going into town first.”

“Maybe,” said Gregg grimly—and loosened his whip. The four lifted themselves together at its crack; in another half mile they were ready to turn out to go around. Gregg watched for a place anxiously. Brush and boulders seemed everywhere, but finally he chose a little sandy wash along which ran the road for a way.

Turning out he went into the sand and lost ten yards. He heard George William laugh sarcastically. But the old stage horses had been in sand before, and had but one passenger besides their driver. In a little while they were abreast the leaders, and here they stayed and could gain no farther. For George William laid on the lash, and the road was good. On they went, the one stage running smoothly on the hard road, the other swaying, bounding, rocking, among the rocks and gullies. A little while they ran thus, and then the road began to tell. Pike shouted triumphantly. Gregg, with despair in his heart, watched with grief the loss of inch after inch. “What can I do?” he groaned—and turning, he found himself face to face with Uncle Hank. The reins dropped from his nerveless hands, and his face went white.

“Give me a hand!” shouted Uncle Hank, and over the swinging door he crawled on the seat—and Gregg perceived he was flesh and blood. The old fire was in his eyes, he stood erect and loosened his whip with his left hand easily as of yore. And then something else happened. The line behind was scattered and strung out to perhaps a mile in length, but every eye was on the racing coaches. They saw the familiar figure of the old stage driver, saw him gather up the reins; saw and understood that he had come back to life again, and up and down that line went a cheer such as Paradise Bar will seldom hear again. Uncle Hank sent the whip waving over the backs of his beloved. “Nebuchadnezzar! Moloch! Rome! Athens! Come! No loafing now. This is our road, our stage—and our camp is shouting. Don’t you hear the boys! Ten years together, you’n me. Whose dust have we taken? Answer me! Good, Athens, good—steady, Rome, you blessed whirlwind. Reach out, Neb—that’s it—reach. Easy, Moloch, easy; never mind the rocks. Yo-ho! Yo-ho-o-o! In we go!”

At the first words of the master, the four lifted themselves as if inspired. Then they stretched lowly and ran; ran because they knew as only horses can know; ran as his voice ran, strong and straight. In three minutes they turned in ahead of the white horses and the funeral stage. The race was practically won. Uncle Hank with the hilarious Gregg alongside, drove into Meadow Lark ten minutes ahead of all others—and Meadow Lark in its astonishment almost stampeded. After a while the rest of Paradise Bar arrived, two of its leading citizens, who had started out in a certain black stage drawn by four horses, coming in on foot. They were quite non-committal in their remarks, but it was inferred from a few words dropped casually that, after the stage stopped, they lost some time in chasing the driver back into the foothills; and it was observed that they were quite gloomy over their failure to capture him.

“Oh, never mind,” said Morosin’ Jones, in an ecstasy of joy. “What’s the good of cherishin’ animosity? Why, for all I care he kin wear that red necktie now if he wants to”—then after a pause—“yes, and the silk hat, too, if he’s bound to be a cabby.”

Uncle Hank was smiling and shaking hands with everybody and explaining how the familiar motion of the stage had brought him out of his trance. “I’m awful glad to have you here, boys; mighty glad to see you. The hosses and me are proud. I’ll admit it. We oughter be. Ain’t Paradise Bar with us, and didn’t we win two out of three, after all?”—From _The Black Cat_, June, 1902, copyright by _Short Story Publishing Co._, and used by their kind permission.

HUMOROUS DIALECT SELECTIONS IN POETRY

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES

POPULARLY KNOWN AS THE HEATHEN CHINEE

TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870

BY BRET HARTE

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.

—Copyright by _Houghton Mifflin & Co._, Boston, and used by their kind permission.

PARODY ON “THAT HEATHEN CHINEE”

[The following remarkable parody was written by the Reverend Father Wood, Professor of English Literature at St. Ignatius College, San Francisco. For the annual exercises of his class, a debate was to be held as to the respective abilities of the various authors and poets studied during the year. Each had his advocates and strenuous adherents. The final test adopted was that each adherent should write out Bret Harte’s _Heathen Chinee_ in the form his favorite author would have followed. These verses are after the style of Samuel Lover, the Irish poet.]

Did ye hear of the haythen Ah Sin,
Maginn?
The bouldest of bould Chaneymin,
Maginn?
Oh. He was the bye
Who could play it on Nye
And strip him as aisy as sin,
To the skin.
Oh. ’Twas he was the gossoon to win.

It was euchre we’d play, me and Nye,
Me bye!
An’ the stakes was uproariously high,
Me bye!
Nye’s sleeves they was stocked,
An’ me feelin’s was shocked,
But never a whisper said I—
You know why!
For Bill is outrageously sly!

The game to the haythen was new,
Aboo!
He didn’t quite know what to do,
Aboo!
With the cyards in his hand
He smiled childlike and bland,
And asked us of questions a few,
Wirrastheu!
Which we answered as bad as we knew.

We tuk it the game was our own,
Ochone!
We’d pick him as cleane as a bone,
Ochone!
But the hands that he played
An’ the p’ints that he made,
Made me feel like a babby ungrown,
I must own!
An’ dull as I’d shwallowed a stone!

Nye wud give him a three or a four,
Asthore!
But niver a better cyard more.
Asthore!
Yet he’d dhrop down a king
Just the aisest thing,
An’ jokers an’ bowers galore
By the score!
You may lay he’d been there before!

He was happy as haythen cud be,
Machree!
His manner surprisingly free,
Machree!
But William looked sour
When he played the right bower
Which William had dealt out to me,
Do ye see!
For to euchre the haythen Chinee.

Then William got up in a stew,
Hurroo!
An’ shlated Ah Sin black and blue,
Hurroo!
An’ shuk out of his sleeve,
I’m not makin’ believe,
Of picture cyards quite a good few!
It is thrue—
This shtory I’m tellin’ to you.

We had danced to the haythen’s own tune.
Aroon!
Oh! It’s lucky we got out so soon,
Aroon!
He had twenty-four packs,
On his fingers was wax—
An’ this in Tim Casey’s saloon!
The ould coon!
How he played us that warm afternoon,
Aroon!

KENTUCKY PHILOSOPHY

BY HARRISON ROBERTSON

You Wi’yam, cum ’ere, suh, dis instunce. Wu’ dat you got under dat box?
I do’ want no foolin’—you hear me? Wut you say? Ain’t nu’h’n but _rocks_?
’Peahs ter me you’s owdashus p’ticler. S’posin’ dey’s uv a new kine.
I’ll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I’s bline?

_I_ calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it
growed;
It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel’, dah on ter side er de road.
You stole it, you rascal—you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot.
En time I gets th’ough wid you, nigger, you won’t eb’n be a grease spot!

_I’ll_ fix you. Mirandy! Mi_ran_dy! go cut me a hick’ry—make ’ase!
En cut me de toughes’ en keenes’ you c’n fine anywhah on de place.
I’ll larn you, Mr. Wi’yam Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young
sinner,
Disgracin’ yo’ ole Christian mammy, en makin’ her leave cookin’ dinner!

Now ain’t you ashamed er yo’se’f, sur? I is. I’s ’shamed you’s my son!
En de holy accorjan angel he’s ’shamed er wut you has done;
En he’s tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters—
“One water-million stoled by Wi’yam Josephus Vetters.”

En wut you s’posen Brer Bascom, yo’ teacher at Sunday school,
’Ud say ef he knowed how you’s broke de good Lawd’s Gol’n Rule?
Boy, whah’s de raisin’ I give you? Is you boun’ fuh ter be a black
villiun?
I’s s’prised dat a chile er yo’ mammy ’ud steal any man’s water-million.

En I’s now gwiner cut it right open, en you shain’t have nary bite,
Fuh a boy who’ll steal water-millions—en dat in de day’s broad light—
Ain’t—_Lawdy!_ its _green_! Mirandy! Mi-ran-dy! come on wi’ dat switch!
_Well_, stealin’ a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever yeered tell er des
sich?

Cain’t tell w’en dey’s ripe? W’y, you thump ’um, en we’n dey go pank dey
is green;
But w’en dey go _punk_, now you mine me, dey’s ripe—en dat’s des wut I
mean.
En nex’ time you hook water-millions—_you_ heered me, you ign’ant, you
hunk,
Ef you doan’ want a lickin’ all over, be sho dat dey allers go “punk!”

—_Harper’s Magazine._

OH, I DUNNO!

ANONYMOUS

Lindy’s hair’s all curly tangles, an’ her eyes es deep en’ gray,
En’ they allus seems er-dreamin’ en’ er-gazin’ far away,
When I ses, “Say, Lindy, darlin’, shall I stay, er shall I go?”
En’ she looks at me er-smilin’, en’ she ses, “Oh, I dunno!”

Now, she knows es I’m er-lovin’ her for years an’ years an’ years
But she keeps me hesitatin’ between my doubts an’ fears;
En’ I’m gettin’ pale and peaked, en’ et’s jes from frettin’ so
Ovur Lindy with her laughin’ an’ er-sayin’, “I dunno!”

T’other night we come frum meetin’ an’ I asks her fer a kiss,
En’ I tells her she’s so many that er few she’ll never miss;
En’ she looks up kinder shy-like, an’ she whispers sorter low,
“Jim, I’d ruther that you wouldn’t, but—er well—Oh, I dunno!”

Then I ses, “Now see here, Lindy, I’m er-wantin’ yer ter state
Ef yer thinks yer’ll ever love me, an’ if I had better wait,
Fer I’m tired of this fulein’, an’ I wants ter be yer beau,
An’ I’d like to hear yer sayin’ suthin’ else but I dunno!”

Then I puts my arm around her an’ I holds her close and tight,
En’ the stars away up yander seems er-winkin’ et th’ sight,
Es she murmurs sof’ an’ faintly, with the words er-comin’ slow,
“Jim, I never loved no other!” Then I ses, “Oh, I dunno!”

RORY O’MORE

BY SAMUEL LOVER

Young Rory O’More courted Kathleen Bawn,
He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn;
He wish’d in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,
And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.
“Now, Rory, be aisy,” sweet Kathleen would cry,
(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye),
“With your tricks I don’t know, in troth, what I’m about;
Faith, you’ve teased till I’ve put on my cloak inside out.”
“Oh! Jewel,” says Rory, “that same is the way
You’ve thrated my heart for this many a day;
And ’tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure?
For ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.

“Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “don’t think of the like,
For I half gave a promise to sootherin’ Mike;
The ground that I walk on he loves, I’ll be bound—”
“Faith,” says Rory, “I’d rather love you than the ground.”
“Now, Rory, I’ll cry if you don’t let me go;
Sure I drame ev’ry night that I’m hatin’ you so!”
“Oh,” says Rory, “that same I’m delighted to hear,
For drames always go by conthraries, my dear;
Oh! jewel, keep dramin’ that same till you die,
And bright mornin’ will give dirty night the black lie!
And ’tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure?
Since ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.

“Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you’ve tazed me enough,
Sure I’ve thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;
And I’ve made myself drinkin’ your health quite a baste,
So I think after that, I may talk to the priest.”

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm ’round her neck,
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,
And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light,
And he kissed her sweet lips;—don’t you think he was right?
“Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you’ll hug me no more.
That’s eight times to-day you have kiss’d me before.”
“Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure,
For there’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’More.

HOWDY SONG

BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

It’s howdy, honey, when you laugh,
An’ howdy when you cry,
An’ all day long it’s howdy—
I never shall say good-by.

I’m monst’us peart myse’f, suh,
An’ hopin’ the same fer you,
An’ when I ketch my breff, suh,
I’ll ax you howdy-do!

It’s howdy, honey, when you sleep,
It’s howdy, when you cry;
Keep up, keep up the howdyin’;
Don’t never say good-by!

I’m middlin’ well myse’f, suh,
Which the same I hope fer you;
Ef you’ll let me ketch my breff, suh,
I’ll ax you howdy-do!

“IMPH-M”

ANONYMOUS

When I was a laddie lang syne at the schule,
The maister aye ca’d me a dunce an’ a fule;
For somehoo his words I could ne’er understand’,
Unless when he bawled, “Jamie, haud oot yer han’!”
Then I gloom’d and say, “Imph-m,”
I glunch’d, and say, “Imph-m,”
I wasna owre proud, but owre dour to say—A-y-e!

Ae day a queer word, as lang-nebbits’ himsel’,
He vow’d he would thrash me if I wadna spell,
Quo I, “Maister Quill,” wi’ a kin’ o’ swither,
“I’ll spell ye the word if ye’ll spell me anither;
Let’s hear ye spell Imph-m,
That common word Imph-m,
That auld Scotch word Imph-m, ye ken it means A-Y-E!”

Had ye seen hoo he glour’d, hoo he scratched his big pate,
An’ shouted, “Ye villain, get oot o’ my gate!
Get aff to your seat! yer the plague o’ the schule!
The de’il o’ me kens if yer maist rogue or fule!”
But I only said, Imph-m,
That pawkie word, Imph-m,
He couldna spell Imph-m, that stands for an A-y-e!

An’ when a brisk wooer, I courted my Jean—
O’ Avon’s braw lasses the pride an’ the queen—
When ’neath my gray pladdie, wi’ heart beatin’ fain,
I speired in a whisper if she’d be my ain,
She blushed an’ said, Imph-m,
That charming word, Imph-m,
A thousan’ times better an’ sweeter than A-y-e!

Just ae thing I wanted my bliss to complete—
Ae kiss frae her rosy mou’, couthie an’ sweet—
But a shake o’ her head was her only reply—
Of course, that said No, but I ken she meant A-y-e,
For her twa een said Imph-m,
Her red lips said, Imph-m,
Her hale face said Imph-m, an’ Imph-m means A-y-e!

GRADING THE STREET

BY MISTUR MALOONEY

’Twas mesilf thin as bot me a swate little lot,
Wid monies I digged for six years in the mines;
An’ I builded an’ plastered a duck o’ a cot,
Which Biddy soon kivird wid crapers and vines,
Wid a backyard and garding convanyent and neat,
Where the childer and pig could kape out o’ the street.

I warked wid the hod an’ had plinty to do,
An’ a stitch in my back ne’er minded at all;
Our childer was healthy and Biddy was true,
And I sung ’neath the load as I mounted the wall.
For I knew when at sundown my work was complete,
My supper was ready, all smoking and sweet.

’Twas down in a valley secure from the wind,
A sandhill a north and a sandhill a south;
I thought that dame nature to me was so kind
She opened her jaws an’ we lived in her mouth.
Biddy oft at the sand would objection and grete,
But I tould her ’twould stop whin they graded the street.

Bad luck to the day thin—one Saturday night
I came back from working two month and a week;
Och! sorry an inch o’ my cot was in sight,
’Twas kivered wid sand an’ all livil and sleek;
I thought that an earthquake had made the hills meet,
Till poor Biddy cried out, “They’ve graded the street!”

“Bad luck to their sowls, thin,” I cried in my hate;
“I’ll sue them for spoiling my cottage an’ land,”
Whin Biddy sobbed out, “Dear Pat, ye are late,
’Tis a bill agin us that I hould in my hand.”
In trouble I looked at the figgers complete,
And saw _four hundred dollars_ for grading the street!

Poor Biddy was faithful, an’ didn’t repine;
Her cousin the childer an’ her had took in,
’Til I could wid our lavings another house find;
Wid a few pots an’ kettles a new life begin;
But exparience had taught me a lesson I weet,
Ne’er to live in a valley beside o’ the street.