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 upsets 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 inclined.
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 prevadin': "Is Profanity degradin'?" in words like unto these:
"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 see!"
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 Pryor'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 couldn't help perceivin', when we took to inkstand heavin', that the process was relievin' to the sharpness 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's intents and aims.
THE THOUGHT-READER OF ANGELS
REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES
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 river!--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--was to us ez 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 me and Bill Nye--in such straits!
And it kem. It was small;
It was dream-like and weak;
It wore store clothes--that's all That we knew, so to speak;
But it called itself "Billson, Thought-Reader"--which ain't half a name for its cheek!
He could read wot you thought, And he knew wot you did;
He could find things untaught, No matter whar hid;
And he went to it, blindfold and smiling, being led by the hand like a kid!
Then I glanced at Bill Nye, And I sez, without pride, "You'll excuse US. We've nigh On to nothin' to hide;
But if some gent will lend us a twenty, we'll hide it whar folks shall decide."
It was Billson's own self Who forked over the gold, With a smile. "Thar's the pelf,"
He remarked. "I make bold To advance it, and go twenty better that I'll find it without being told."
Then I passed it to Nye, Who repassed it to me.
And we bandaged each eye Of that Billson--ez we Softly dropped that coin in his coat pocket, ez the hull crowd around us could see.
That was all. He'd one hand Locked in mine. Then he groped.
We could not understand Why that minit Nye sloped, For we knew we'd the dead thing on Billson--even more than we dreamed of or hoped.
For he stood thar in doubt With his hand to his head;
Then he turned, and lit out Through the door where Nye fled, Draggin' me and the rest of us arter, while we larfed till we thought we was dead, Till he overtook Nye And went through him. Words fail For what follers! Kin I Paint our agonized wail Ez he drew from Nye's pocket that twenty wot we sworn was in his own coat-tail!
And it WAS! But, when found, It proved bogus and brass!
And the question goes round How the thing kem to pass?
Or, if PASSED, woz it passed thar by William; and I listens, and echoes "Alas!
"For the days when the skill Of the keerds was no blind, When no effort of will Could beat four of a kind, When the thing wot you held in your hand, Pard, was worth more than the thing in your mind."
THE SPELLING BEE AT ANGELS
(REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES)
Waltz in, waltz in, ye little kids, and gather round my knee, And drop them books and first pot-hooks, and hear a yarn from me.
I kin not sling a fairy tale of Jinnys* fierce and wild, For I hold it is unchristian to deceive a simple child;
But as from school yer driftin' by, I thowt ye'd like to hear Of a "Spelling Bee" at Angels that we organized last year.
It warn't made up of gentle kids, of pretty kids, like you, But gents ez hed their reg'lar growth, and some enough for two.
There woz Lanky Jim of Sutter's Fork and Bilson of Lagrange, And "Pistol Bob," who wore that day a knife by way of change.
You start, you little kids, you think these are not pretty names, But each had a man behind it, and--my name is Truthful James.
There was Poker Dick from Whisky Flat, and Smith of Shooter's Bend, And Brown of Calaveras--which I want no better friend;
Three-fingered Jack--yes, pretty dears, three fingers--YOU have five.
Clapp cut off two--it's sing'lar, too, that Clapp ain't now alive.
'Twas very wrong indeed, my dears, and Clapp was much to blame;
Likewise was Jack, in after-years, for shootin' of that same.
