For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the

Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye

down here in the grass:

You see, this 'yer Dow,

Hed the worst kind of luck:

He slipped up somehow

On each thing thet he struck.

Why, ef he'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned

thing 'ed get up and buck.

He mined on the bar

Till he couldn't pay rates;

He was smashed by a car

When he tunnelled with Bates;

And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife

and five kids from the States.

And the old woman, well, she did washing, and

-

took on when no one was nigh.

But this yer luck of Dow's

Was so powerful mean,

That the spring near his house

Dried right up on the green;

And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen.

Then the bar petered out,

And the boys wouldn't stay;

And the chills got about,

And his wife fell away;

But Dow, in his well, kept a peggin' in his usual

With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a derringer hid in his breast.

He goes to the well;

And he stands on the brink,

And stops for a spell

Jest to listen and think: