And this was the way it was. It was night when I kem up here To say to 'em all "good-by," for I reckoned to go for deer At "sun up" the day they left. So I shook 'em all round by the hand, 'Cept Mabel, and she was sick, ez they give me to understand.
But jist ez I passed the house next morning at dawn, some one, Like a little waver o' mist got up on the hill with the sun;
Miss Mabel it was, alone--all wrapped in a mantle o' lace--And she stood there straight in the road, with a touch o' the sun in her face.
And she looked me right in the eye--I'd seen suthin' like it before When I hunted a wounded doe to the edge o' the Clear Lake Shore, And I had my knee on its neck, and I jist was raisin' my knife, When it give me a look like that, and--well, it got off with its life.
"We are going to-day," she said, "and I thought I would say good-by To you in your own house, Luke--these woods and the bright blue sky!
You've always been kind to us, Luke, and papa has found you still As good as the air he breathes, and wholesome as Laurel Tree Hill.
"And we'll always think of you, Luke, as the thing we could not take away,--The balsam that dwells in the woods, the rainbow that lives in the spray.
And you'll sometimes think of ME, Luke, as you know you once used to say, A rifle smoke blown through the woods, a moment, but never to stay."
And then we shook hands. She turned, but a-suddent she tottered and fell, And I caught her sharp by the waist, and held her a minit. Well, It was only a minit, you know, thet ez cold and ez white she lay Ez a snowflake here on my breast, and then--well, she melted away--And was gone. . . . And thar are her books; but I says not any for me;
Good enough may be for some, but them and I mightn't agree.
They spiled a decent gal ez might hev made some chap a wife, And look at me!--clar two hundred--and never read one in my life!
"THE BABES IN THE WOODS"
(BIG PINE FLAT, 1871)
"Something characteristic," eh?
Humph! I reckon you mean by that Something that happened in our way, Here at the crossin' of Big Pine Flat.
Times aren't now as they used to be, When gold was flush and the boys were frisky, And a man would pull out his battery For anything--maybe the price of whiskey.
Nothing of that sort, eh? That's strange!
Why, I thought you might be diverted Hearing how Jones of Red Rock Range Drawed his "hint to the unconverted,"
And saying, "Whar will you have it?" shot Cherokee Bob at the last debating!
What was the question I forgot, But Jones didn't like Bob's way of stating.
Nothing of that kind, eh? You mean Something milder? Let's see!--O Joe!
Tell to the stranger that little scene Out of the "Babes in the Woods." You know, "Babes" was the name that we gave 'em, sir, Two lean lads in their teens, and greener Than even the belt of spruce and fir Where they built their nest, and each day grew leaner.
No one knew where they came from. None Cared to ask if they had a mother.
Runaway schoolboys, maybe. One Tall and dark as a spruce; the other Blue and gold in the eyes and hair, Soft and low in his speech, but rarely Talking with us; and we didn't care To get at their secret at all unfairly.
For they were so quiet, so sad and shy, Content to trust each other solely, That somehow we'd always shut one eye, And never seem to observe them wholly As they passed to their work. 'Twas a worn-out claim, And it paid them grub. They could live without it, For the boys had a way of leaving game In their tent, and forgetting all about it.
Yet no one asked for their secret. Dumb It lay in their big eyes' heavy hollows.
It was understood that no one should come To their tent unawares, save the bees and swallows.
So they lived alone. Until one warm night I was sitting here at the tent-door,--so, sir!
When out of the sunset's rosy light Up rose the Sheriff of Mariposa.
I knew at once there was something wrong, For his hand and his voice shook just a little, And there isn't much you can fetch along To make the sinews of Jack Hill brittle.
"Go warn the Babes!" he whispered, hoarse;
"Tell them I'm coming--to get and scurry;
For I've got a story that's bad,--and worse, I've got a warrant: G-d d--n it, hurry!"
Too late! they had seen him cross the hill;
I ran to their tent and found them lying Dead in each other's arms, and still Clasping the drug they had taken flying.
And there lay their secret cold and bare, Their life, their trial--the old, old story!
For the sweet blue eyes and the golden hair Was a WOMAN'S shame and a WOMAN'S glory.
"Who were they?" Ask no more, or ask The sun that visits their grave so lightly;
Ask of the whispering reeds, or task The mourning crickets that chirrup nightly.
All of their life but its love forgot, Everything tender and soft and mystic, These are our Babes in the Woods,--you've got, Well--human nature--that's characteristic.
THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE
It was noon by the sun; we had finished our game, And was passin' remarks goin' back to our claim;
Jones was countin' his chips, Smith relievin' his mind Of ideas that a "straight" should beat "three of a kind,"
When Johnson of Elko came gallopin' down, With a look on his face 'twixt a grin and a frown, And he calls, "Drop your shovels and face right about, For them Chinees from Murphy's are cleanin' us out--With their ching-a-ring-chow And their chic-colorow They're bent upon making No slouch of a row."
Then Jones--my own pardner--looks up with a sigh;
"It's your wash-bill," sez he, and I answers, "You lie!"
But afore he could draw or the others could arm, Up tumbles the Bates boys, who heard the alarm.
And a yell from the hill-top and roar of a gong, Mixed up with remarks like "Hi! yi! Chang-a-wong,"
And bombs, shells, and crackers, that crashed through the trees, Revealed in their war-togs four hundred Chinees!
Four hundred Chinee;
We are eight, don't ye see!
That made a square fifty To just one o' we.
They were dressed in their best, but I grieve that that same Was largely made up of our own, to their shame;
And my pardner's best shirt and his trousers were hung On a spear, and above him were tauntingly swung;
