Зображення сторінки
PDF
ePub

164

His Answer to "Her Letter."

(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, it's true.

Which I have a small favour 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 knew 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 château.

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,-
What, no?—

You know we are married.

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 civilisation 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;

« НазадПродовжити »