Complete Poetical Works

AN IDYL OF THE ROAD

     (SIERRAS, 1876)DRAMATIS PERSONAE

     First Tourist

     Second Tourist

     Yuba Bill, Driver

     A Stranger

     FIRST TOURIST     Look how the upland plunges into 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.     CHORUS OF PASSENGERS     Speed, Yuba Bill! oh, speed us to our dinner!     Speed to the sunset that beckons far away.     SECOND TOURIST     William of Yuba, O Son of Nimshi, hearken!       Check thy profanity, but not thy chariot's play.     Tell us, O William, before the shadows darken,       Where, and, oh! how we shall dine?  O William, say!     YUBA 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 you 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;       Red on her cheeks all the evening's sunshine lay.     SECOND TOURIST     Praise is but breath, O chariot compeller!     Yet of that hash we would bid you farther say.     YUBA BILL     Thar woz a snipe—like you, a fancy tourist—       Kem to that ranch ez if to make a stay,     Ran off the gal, and ruined jist the purist       Critter that lived—     STRANGER (quietly)                             You're a liar, driver!     YUBA BILL (reaching for his revolver).                                                     Eh!     Here take my lines, somebody—     CHORUS OF PASSENGERS                                    Hush, boys! listen!     Inside there's a lady!  Remember!  No affray!     YUBA 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-ll 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 revolver;     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 chapparal musing.     "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 barroom 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 regular 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 challenge,     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 uncertain;     Slowly a Derringer drew, and covered the person of Thompson;     Said in his feeblest pipe, "I'm a Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley."     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 mountains,     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 Valley!

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 below.     Above the tumult of the canyon 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,     And up this canyon (Peters' brother leadin'),       And me and Clark and Joe.     "He fou't us game: somehow I disremember       Jest how the thing kem round;     Some say 'twas wadding, some a scattered ember       From fires on the ground.     "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!     "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 bristly       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 shouted       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;     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'll 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 isn't it nice to have riches,       And diamonds and silks, and all that?"     "And aren'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,     If you saw poor dear mamma contriving       To look supernaturally 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 McGee;     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;       Of—the something you said at the gate.     Ah! Joe, then I wasn'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     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!       (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;       Good-night!—if the longitude please,—     For maybe, while wasting my taper,       YOUR sun's climbing over the trees.     But know, if you haven'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"

(REPORTED 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.)     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 melt into tears at your smile.     And "you'll 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;     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.     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'll 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 RETURN OF BELISARIUS"

(MUD FLAT, 1860)     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 didn't!  Well, come, that's a go;     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. O.     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 didn't meet Euchre-deck Billy       Anywhere on your road to Cairo?     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?     'Twas just like your romance, old fellow;       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

(NYE'S FORD, STANISLAUS, 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 drawed     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?"     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     Round 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;     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?

AFTER THE ACCIDENT

(MOUTH OF THE SHAFT)     What I want is my husband, sir,—        And if you're a man, sir,     You'll 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'll be strong,        If you'll 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.     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'll take it.     I know his wife, sir,        I'll break it.        "Foreman!"        Ay, ay!        "Out by and by,—        Just saved his life.        Say to his wife        Soon he'll 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,         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?"     "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'll 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?     'Twasn't by sneakin' round where I hadn't no call to go;     'Twasn't by hangin' round a-spyin' unfortnet men.     Grin! but I'll 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.     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 understand,     And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in the land.     For 'twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like me;     And the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they couldn't agree;     And 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 doesn't take no food, and I'm seein' him waste away.     And it isn't the thing to see; for, whatever he's been and done,     Starvation isn't the plan as he's to be saved upon.     For he cannot rough it like me; and he hasn't the stamps, I guess,     To buy 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 isn't even my pal;     And, if it's a comfort to you, why, I don't intend that he shall.