Chapter L: A Y S O F T H E L a N D (1)

THE RISE AND FALL OF GLORYVILLE

Where the rockiest Rocky Mountains interview the scornful skies,
And the sager kinds of sage-bush in the middle distance rise,
There the cultured eye descending from the dreamlike azure hill,
Lights in an æsthetic foreground on the town of Gloryville.

It was in the Middle Ages—’bout the end of Sixty-eight,
So I found the hoary legend written on an ancient slate—
That one Ezry Jenks prospecting, when he reached this blooming spot,
Thus uplifted to his pardner: “Glory! Moses, let us squat!”

Thus rebounded Moses Adams: “Glory was the foremost word
Which in the untrammelled silence of this wilderness was heard,
And I arnswer, dimly feelin’ like a prophet, grand and slow,
‘Glory kinder sounds like Money—up to glory let her go!’”

And this casual conversation in the year of Sixty-eight,
As if by an inspiration he recorded on a slate,
Which ’twas said in later ages—six weeks after—used to hang
As a curiositary in the principal shebang.

On the spot that very evening they perceived a beauteous gleam
From a grain of shining metal in a wild auriferous stream:
As their eyes remarked the symptom thus their tongues responsive
spoke:
“In this undiscovered section there _is_ pay-dirt, sure as smoke!”

Little boots or little shoes it to inform you how, like crows
To a carcase, folks came flying, and the town of Glory rose;
As in country schools the urchins cast each one a spittle-ball,
Till at last a monstrous paper fungus gathers on the wall.

’Long the road they built their cabins, in a vis-a-visual way,
As if each man to his neighbour kind of wished to have his say;
But ’twas also said that like two rows of teeth the houses grew,
Threatening uncommon danger to the stranger passing through.

Yes, for like the note of freedom sounded on Hibernia’s harp,
Every person in the party was a most uncommon sharp;
And it got to be a saying that from such an ornery cuss
As a regular Gloryvillin—oh, good Law deliver us!

First of all the pay-dirt vanished or became uncommon rare,
Then they wandered more than ever to the Cross and from the Square,
For when all resources failed them nary copper did they mind,
For they had fine-answering Genius, which is never left behind.

So they got incopperated as a city fair and grand,
Spreading memoirs of their splendour over many a distant land,
Mind I say in _distant_ places—people near them knew
Into what unearthly beauty the great town of Glory grew.

Then they sent an ex-tra Governor over seas and far beyond,
Even unto distant Holland, loaded up with many a bond,
Splendidly engraved in London, having just the proper touch
Quite imposing—rather—for they did impose upon the Dutch.

And with every bond the Governor had a picture to bestow
Of the town of Gloryville a-bathing in the sunset’s glow;
This they had performed in Paris by an artist full of cheek,
Who was told to draw a city _comme il faut dans l’Amérique_.

The ideas of this artist were idead from long ago,
Out of scenery in an opera, “Cortez in the Mexico.”
Therefore all his work expanded with expensive fallacies:
Castles, towered walls, pavilions, real-estately palaces.

In the foreground lofty palm-trees, as if full of soaring love,
Bore up coco-nuts and monkeys to the smiling heaven above;
Jet-black Indian chieftains, at their feet too lovely girls were
sighin,
With an elephant beyond them—here and there a casual lion.

You have seen in _Pilgrim’s Progress_ the Celestial City stand
Like a hub in half a cart-wheel raying light o’er all the land.
Well, in _that_, it is the felloes of the wheel which cause the blaze;
So in Gloryville the fellows were the ones who made the rays.

When these views were well matured the Governor went to Amsterdam,
Where to Mynheer Schmuel Ganef first of all he made his slam:
At a glance each “saw” the other—at a glance they went aside,
And without a word of bother soon the plan was cut and dried.

For one hundred thousand dollars then the Governor at will
Gave away the full fee-simple of the town of Gloryville.
“Dat for you,” said Schmuel Ganef, “is, I dink, not much too much,
But I makesh de shtock a million ven I sells him to the Dutch.”

And the secret of his selling was upon the artful plan
Known to the police in Paris as the _vol Américain_,
Whereby he who does the spilling manages the man who’s spilt
Very nicely, for he makes him an accomplice in the guilt.

Even as of old great sages managed the Parisian _fonds_,
So in Amsterdam Heer Ganef peddled out his Glory bonds;
And to all he slyly whispered, “I will let you in de first
On de ground-floor—sell out quickly—for you know de ding may burst.”

Woe to you who live by thieving, though you be of rogues the chief,
Even the greatest will discover in due time his master-thief.
True, he “let them in,” and truly on the very bottom floor,
But was with the Gloryvillins in the cellar long before.

And to tell you how the biters all got bitten were in vain;
Here the Governor leaves my story, and he comes not in again.
I will pass to later ages, when all Gloryville, you bet,
Found itself extreme encumbered with an extra booming debt.

Those who sold the bonds had vanished, those who hadn’t held the town,
Little knew they of its glory over seas or great renown.
They had nothing of the fruitage, though, alas! they held the plant,
Nothing saw they of the picture, save, indeed, the Elephant.

He who had been in the background now came trampling to the fore;
Terribly he trampled on them, very awful was his roar!
Very dreadful is the silence when no human voice responds
To a legal requisition for the interest of our bonds.

But ere long a shrewd reflection unto Moses Adams came—
“Darned ef I’m a-gwine to suffer fur another party’s game;
Wings is given to muskeeters—like muskeeters men can fly;
Ef a strawberry-vine can travel with its roots, then why not I?”

Silently, in secret, Moses to himself a plan reveals,
Got a three-inch plank and sawed it into surreptitious wheels,
And when night in solemn mystery had succeeded unto day,
Put his hut and things on axles, and quite lonely drove away

To a place just over yonder by the old Coyote Road;
There, no more a man of glory, Moses Adams dropped his load,
And when resting from his labour and refreshing from his jug,
Having known a town called Julesberg, called his shanty Splendourbug.

On the following morn as usual in due time arose the sun,
And the Gloryvillins followed his example one by one;
While he smiled upon the city, as on other things beneath,
’Twas observed one snag was wanting in the double row of teeth.

Little said the Left-behinders, but they seemed to take the hint,
And each man surveyed his neighbour with a shrewd and genial squint;
All day long there was a sound of sawing timber up and down,
Seven more houses in the morning were a-wanting in the town.

And before the week departed all the town departed too,
Just like the swallows in the autumn to another soil they flew;
Only that, unlike the swallows which we hear of in the song,
When the Gloryvillins squandered each one took his nest along.

All except one ancient darkey, obstinate and blind and lame,
Who for want of wheels and credit could not follow up the game;
So the others had to leave him, which they did without regret,
Left him there without a copper—just one million deep in debt.

If you seek them you may find them comfortable as in a rug,
All of them at length established in the town of Splendourbug;
And the driver to the traveller as by Gloryville he goes,
Points him out, an ancient darkey who a million dollars owes.

IN THE WRONG BOX

When Eagle Davis died,
I was sittin’ by his side,
’Twas in Boston, Massachusetts; and he said to me, “Old boy!
This climate—as you see—
Isn’t quite the size for me;
Dead or livin’, take me back if you can to Ellanoy!”

So I took him by the hand,
But he’d just run out his sand,
And his breath was gone for ever—before a word would come;
Then I and other three
Together did agree
In a party for to travel and to funeralise him home.

But Goshen Wheeler said,
As he looked upon the dead,
Weepin’ mildly, “Just remark my observation what I say:
That deceased, now glori_ous_,
Was in life a curious cuss,
And somethin’ unexpectable will happen on the way.

“Frum the time that he was born
Till he doubled round the Horn
Of Death, all his measurements and pleasurements were odd;
And odd his line will be,
As you’re registered to see,
Till his walnut case is underneath the gravel and the sod.”

It was bitter winter weather
When we all four got together
At the depôt with the coffin in an extra packin’ box;
And a friend with good intent,
A cask of whisky sent,
Just to keep our boats from wrackin’, as they say, upon the rocks.

Then a ticket agent he
Seein’ mournin’, says to me,
“Can I get the cards, or help you in your trouble, Mister Brown?”
So with solemn words I said,
As I pinted to the dead,
“There you’ll find, I guess, our pilgrimage and shrine is written
down.”

Then all night beneath the stars
We sat grimly in the cars,
Sometimes sleepin’, sometimes thinkin’, sometimes drinkin’, till the
dawn;
And each man went in his turn
To the baggage-crate to learn
If the box was keepin’ time with us, and how ’twas gettin’ on.

Then all day beneath the sun
Still the train went rushin’ on,
While we still kep’ as silent as grave-stones as we went:
Playing euchre solemnly,
Which we kinder did agree
With the stakes to build for Davis a decent monu_ment_.

’Bout once in every mile
Some mourner took a smile,
But we did no other smilin’ as we travelled day or night;
And once in every hour
Some one went into the bower,
And reported the receptacle of Davis was all right.

But when four days were past,
Which we still were flyin’ fast,
Goshen Wheeler, very solemn, with expression to us cries,
“Where we are it should be freezin’
And our very breaths a-squeezin’,
Whereas the air is hot enough to bake persimmon pies.

“Don’t you smell a rich perfume
As of summer flowers in bloom?
’Tis magnolias a-peddled by yon humble coloured boy:
Now, I never yet did know
That the sweet mag-no-li-o
Grew in winter in the latitude of Northern Ellanoy.”

Then said Ebenezer Dotton,
“I behold a field of cotton,
And I wonder how in thunder such a veg’table got here.
I don’t know how we’re fixed,
But the climate’s getting mixed,
And it’s spilin’ very rapidly with warmness as I fear.”

Spoke Mister Aaron Bland,
“I perceive on yonder land
That sugar-cane is bloomin’, correctly, all in rows,
And not to make allusions
To Republican delusions,
But the niggers air a-gettin’ all around as thick as crows.”

Still we sat there mighty glum
Till along a fellow come.
And I says, says I, “Conductor, now tell us what it means,
Just inform us where we be?”
“Wall, now, gentlemen,” said he,
“I reckon we air comin’ to the spot called New Or-leéns!”

So we rushed all in a row,
When we got to the depôt,
To the baggage-crate, a-wonderin’ at these transformation scenes;
And we found out unexpected
That the box had been directed
Not unto Ellanoy, but to a man in New Or-leéns!

Without carin’ if I’d catch it,
I straightway took a hatchet,
And busted off the cover without openin’ my mouth;
And found a grand pianner
Which we’d followed for our banner
All the way from Massachusetts unto the sunny South!

Then I said, “I rather guess
I can see into this mess,
And explain the startlin’ error which has given you such shocks.
When that Boston fellow, he
Asked the route I’d take of me,
I pinted, inadvertional, unto another box.”

Now Eagle Davis lies
Beneath the Northern skies,
Where the snow is on the pine-tree while we are with the palm;
But I reckon if his spirit
Should ever come to hear it,
He’ll be perfectly contented with the story in this psalm.

ZION JERSEY BOGGS
A LEGEND OF PHILADELPHIA

Before the telegraphic wires
Had ever run from pole to pole,
Or telegirls sent telegrams
To cheer the weary waiting soul;
When all things went about as slow
As terrapins could run on clogs,
Was played a game
By one whose name
Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

A Philadelphia newspaper
Was printed then on Chestnut Street,
While ’crost the way, just opposite,
There lived a sufferin’ rival sheet,
Whose editors could get no news,
Which made ’em cross as starvin’ hogs;
The first, I guess,
Had an express
Which kind o’ b’longed to Mister Boggs.

But in those days the only news
Which reëly opened readers’ eyes,
Was of the New York lottery,
And who by luck had got a prize.
All other news, for all they cared,
Might travel to the orful dogs;
And this they got
All piping hot—
Though surreptitiously—from Boggs.

For of the crew no party knew
That Boggs did any horses own.
All sportin’ amputations he
Did most concussively disown;
For he had serious subtle aims,
His wheels were full of secret cogs,—
Well oiled and slow,
Yet sure to go,
Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

One mornin’ he, mysteriously,
An’ smilin’ quite ironical,
Spoke to the other editor,
The man who run the _Chronicle:_
“The _Ledger_ has a hoss express
By which your lottery news he flogs.”
“Yes, that is true,
But what’s to do?”
Replied the man to Mister Boggs.

Then Mister Boggs let down his brows,
And with a long deep knowing wink,
Said, “Hosses travel mighty fast,
But ther air faster things, I think;
An’ kerrier-pidgings, as you know,
Kin find their way thro’ storm and fogs:
Them air the bugs
To fly like slugs!”
Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

“And in my glorious natyve land,
Which lies acrost the Delaware,
I hev a lot upon the spot,—
Just twenty dollars fur a pair.
These gentle insects air the things
To make the _Ledger_ squeal like hogs;
That is the game
To hit ’em lame!”
Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

The editor looked back again,
And saw him better on his wink.
“It is the crisis of our fate—
Say, Boggs, what is your style of drink?
Step to the bar of Congress Hall;—
We’ll try your poultry on, by Gogs!
An’ let ’em fly
Tarnation high!”
“Amen!” said Zion Jersey Boggs.

The pidgins came, the pidgins flew,
They lit upon the lofty wall;
They made their five an’ ninety miles
In just about no time at all.
Compared to them, the _Ledger_ team
Went just as slow as haulin’ logs.
But all was mum,
Shut close an’ dum,
By the request of Mister Boggs.

Then on the follerin’ Monday he,
Lookin’ profounder as he prowled,
This son of sin an’ mystery,
Into the _Ledger_ orfice owled.
“An’ oh! to think,” he sadly groaned,
“That earth should bear setch skalliwogs!
Setch all-fired snakes,
And no mistakes!”
Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

“Why, what is up?” asked Mr. Swain;
“It seems you’ve had some awful shoves.”
“The _Chronicle_,” his agent cried,
“Has went an’ bin an’ bought some doves!
Them traitors, wretches, swindlers, cheats,
Hev smashed us up like polywogs.
They’ve knocked, I guess,
Our hoss express
Higher than any kite,” said Boggs.

“Have you no plan?” asked Mister Swain,
“To keep the fellows off our walks?”
“I _hev_,” said Boggs, as grim as death;
“What do you think of pidging-horks?
For in my glorious natyve land,
Acrost the river, ’mong the frogs,
I hev a lot
All sharply sot
To eat them pidgings up,” said Boggs.

“They are the chosen birds of wrath,
They fly like arrers through the air,
Or angels sent by orful Death—
Jist fifty dollars fur a pair;
An’ cheap to keep, because, you see,
Upon the enemy they progs.”
“Well, try it on,
And now begone!”
Said Mister Swain to Mister Boggs.

The autumn morn was bright and fair,
Fresh as a rose with recent rain.
The pidgins tortled through the air,
But nary one came home again.
Some feathers dropped in Chestnut Street,
Some bills and claws among the logs:
Wipin’ a tear,
“I greatly fear
That all’s not right,” said Mr. Boggs.

Into the _Chronicle_ he went,
Twice as mysterious as before,
“And _hev_ you heard the orful news?”
He whispered as he shet the door.
“Oh, I hev come to tell a tale
Of crime, which all creation flogs,
Of wretchery
And treachery
That bangs tarnation sin,” said Boggs.

“Them _Ledger_ fellers with their tricks,
Hev slopped clean over crime’s dark cup.
They’ve bin an’ bought some pidging-horks,
And they hev _et_ our pidgings up.
Oh, whut is life wuth livin’ fur
When editors behave like hogs?
An’ ragin’ crime
Makes double time;
Oh, darn setch villany!” cried Boggs.

“But hark! bee-hold, to-morrer, thou
In deep revenge may dry your tears;
I hev a plan, which, you’ll allow,
Beats all-git-out when it eppears.
The ragin’ eagle of the North,
The bird which all creation flogs,
Will cause them horks
To walk ther chalks,
An’ give us grand revenge,” said Boggs.

“Them glorious birds of liberty,
Them symbols of our country’s fame,
Wild, sarsy, furious, and free,
Indeliably rowdy game;
They shall revenge them gentile doves,
Our harmless messengers, by Gogs!
In which the horks
Hev stuck ther forks,”
Cried Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

“For in my glorious natyve land
Acrost the river, down below,
I hev a farm, and in the barn
Six captyve eagles in a row:
One hundred dollars fur a pair;
Fetch out the flimsies frum your togs
An’ up on high
_I’ll_ make ’em fly,”
Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

But this same editor had heard
Some hint or rumour, faint or dim,
How Mister Boggs, it was averred,
Was coming Paddy over him.
An earlier tale of soapy deeds
Then gave his memory startling jogs,
And full of wrath
Right in his path
He went for Zion Jersey Boggs.

“Horses and pidgins—pidgin-horks”—
That was enough to raise his Dutch:
He saw it all—and also saw
The eagle—“Just one bird too much.”
Too mad to mind his shootin’-iron,
And throw good powder to the dogs,
He grabbed his chair,
And then and there
Corrected Zion Jersey Boggs.

After long years had rolled away,
And Morse’s telegraph came in,
Still on the facing rival roofs
Two grey old cages could be seen,
And young reporters o’er their drinks
Would tell each other—jolly dogs—
Of ancient time
What in this rhyme
I’ve told of Zion Jersey Boggs.

THE BALLAD OF THE GREEN OLD MAN

It was a balmeous day in May, when spring was springing high
And all amid the buttercups the bees did butterfly;
While the butterflies were being enraptured in the flowers,
And winsome frogs were singing soft morals to the showers.

Green were the emerald grasses which grew upon the plain,
And green too were the verdant boughs which rippled in the rain,
Far green likewise the apple hue which clad the distant hill,
But at the station sat a man who looked far greener still.

An ancient man, a boy-like man, a person mild and meek,
A being who had little tongue, and nary bit of cheek.
And while upon him pleasant-like I saw the ladies look,
He sat a-counting money in a brownsome pocket-book.

Then to him a policeman spoke: “Unless you feel too proud,
You’d better stow away that cash while you’re in this here crowd;
There’s many a chap about this spot who’d clean you out like ten.”
“And can it be,” exclaimed the man, “there are such wicked men?

“Then I will put my greenbacks up all in my pocket-book,
And keep it buttoned very tight, and at the button look.”
He said it with a simple tone, and gave a simple smile—
You never saw a half-grown shad one-half so void of guile.

And the bumble-bees kept bumbling away among the flowers,
While distant frogs were frogging amid the summer showers,
And the tree-toads were tree-toadying in accents sharp or flat—
All nature seemed a-naturing as there the old man sat.

Then up and down the platform promiscuous he strayed,
Amid the waiting passengers he took his lemonade,
A-making little kind remarks unto them all at sight,
Until he met two travellers who looked cosmopolite.

Now even as the old was green, this pair were darkly-brown;
They seemed to be of that degree which sports about the town.
Amid terrestrial mice, I ween, their destiny was Cat;
If ever men were gonoffs,[9] I should say these two were that.

And they had watched that old man well with interested look,
And gazed him counting greenbacks in that brownsome pocket-book;
And the elder softly warbled with benevolential phiz,
“Green peas has come to market, and the veg’tables is riz.”

Yet still across the heavenly sky the clouds went clouding on,
The rush upon the gliding brook kept rushing all alone,
While the ducks upon the water were a-ducking just the same,
And every mortal human man kept on his little game.

And the old man to the strangers very affable let slip
How that zealousy policeman had given him the tip,
And how his cash was buttoned in his pocket dark and dim,
And how he guessed no man alive on earth could gammon him.

In ardent conversation ere long the three were steeped,
And in that good man’s confidence the younger party deeped.
The p’liceman, as he shadowed them, exclaimed in blooming rage,
“They’re stuffin’ of that duck, I guess, and leavin’ out the sage.”

He saw the game distinctly, and inspected how it took,
And watched the reappearance of that brownsome pocket-book,
And how that futile ancient, ere he buttoned up his coat,
Had interchanged, obliging-like, a greensome coloured note.

And how they parted tenderly, and how the happy twain
Went out into the Infinite by taking of the train;
Then up the blue policeman came, and said, “My ancient son,
Now you have gone and did it; say what you have been and done?”

And unto him the good old man replied with childish glee,
“They were as nice a two young men as I did ever see;
But they were in such misery their story made me cry;
So I lent ’em twenty dollars—which they’ll pay me by-and-bye.

“But as I had no twenty, we also did arrange,
They got from me a fifty bill, and gimme thirty change;
But they will send that fifty back, and by to-morrow’s train——”
“That note,” out cried the constable, “you’ll never see again.”

“And that,” exclaimed the sweet old man, “I hope I never may,
Because I do not care a cuss how far it keeps away;
For if I’m a judge of money, and I _reether_ think I am,
The one I shoved was never worth a continental dam.

“They hev wandered with their sorrers into the sunny South,
They hev got uncommon swallows and an extry lot of mouth.
In the next train to the North’ard I expect to widely roam,
And if any come inquirin’, jist say I ain’t at home.”

The p’liceman lifted up his glance unto the sunny skies,
I s’pose the light was fervent, for a tear were in his eyes,
And said, “If in your travels a hat store you should see,
Just buy yourself a beaver tile and charge that tile to me.”

While the robins were a-robbing acrost the meadow gay,
And the pigeons still a-pigeoning among the gleam of May,
All out of doors kept out of doors as suchlike only can,
A-singing of an endless hymn about that good old man.

-----

[9] _Gonoff_, a Scriptural term for a Member of the Legislature, or suchlike.

CARRYING COALS

In the gloomsome abysses where darkness is kept,
And the spirit of silence for ages has slept,
In the great shaft of Pottsville, way down in the hole,
There came seven parties, all dealers in coal;
But they never had been in that chasm before,
Nor had the sensation of darkness all o’er,
Which so greatly expandeth the soul.

And one of ’em said, “It’s an awful delight
To be infinite deep into no end of night,
Where the heavenly sunshine can’t manage to spring,—
And, talking of that, I’ve a notion, by Jing!
Let we ourselves mine out some coal lumps to-day
To show to the folks,—which I think, by the way,
Would be a poetical thing.”

So they filled up their pockets, untried by a doubt,
And in the hotel they unveiled ’em all out;
But their glances grew strange as they turned o’er the weight,
Till one of them shouted, “By thunder, it’s slate!”
Yet the youngest among them had dealered in coal,
And unto that traffic surrendered his soul,
Since the Anno Eighteen Forty-eight.

For all of man’s wisdom is only a dream,
Which passeth away like a plate of ice-cream,
And the best of experience fails, as we mark,
If you go for to dig when you’re all in the dark;
For there’s always a moral inside of a tale,
And big things in little things always prevail
As sure as there’s wood in the bark.

CAREY, OF CARSON

The night-mist dim and darkling,
As o’er the roads we pass,
Lies in the morning sparkling
As dewdrops on the grass.
E’en so the deeds of darkness,
Which come like midnight dews,
Appear as sparkling items
Next morning in the news.

Away in Carson City,
Far in the Silver Land,
There lives one Justice Carey,
A man of head and hand;
And as upon his table
The Judge a-smoking sat
There rowdied in a rougher
Who wore a gallows hat.

He looked upon the Justice,
But Justice did not budge
Until the younger warbled,
“Say—don’t you know me, Judge?”
“I think,” said Carey meekly,
“Your face full well I know,—
I sent you up for stealing
A horse a year ago.”

“Ay, that is just the hair-pin
I am, and that’s my line;
And here is twenty dollars
I’ve brought to pay the fine.”
“You owe no fine,” said Carey,
“Your punishment is o’er.”
“Not yet,” replied the rover;
“I’ve come to have some more.

“Fust-rate assault and batt’ry
I’m goin’ to commit,
And you’re the mournful victim
That I intend to hit,
And give you such a scrampin’
As never was, nohow;
And so, to save the lawin’,
I guess I’ll settle now.”

Up rose the Court in splendour;
“Young man, your start is fair,
Sail in, my son, sail over,
And we will call it square!
Go in upon your chances,—
Perhaps you may not miss;
I like to see young heroes
Ambitionin’ like this.”

The young one at the older
Went in with all his heft,
And, like a flyin’ boulder,
At once let out his left;
The Court, in haste, ducked under
Its head uncommon spry,
Then lifted the intruder
With a puncher in the eye,—

A regular right-hander;
And like a cannon-ball,
The young man, when percussioned
Went over on the wall.
In just about a second,
The Court, with all its vim,
Like squash-vines o’er a meadow,
Went climbing over him.

Yea, as the pumpkin clambers
Above an Indian grave,
Or as the Mississippi
Inunders with its wave,
And merrily slops over
A town in happy sport,
E’en so that man was clambered
All over by the Court.

And in about a minute
That party was so raw,
He would have seemed a stranger
Unto his dearest squaw;
Till he was soft and tender,
This morsel once so tough,
And then, in sad surrender,
He moaned aloud, “Enough!”

He rose; and Justice Carey
Said to him ere he went,
“I do not think the fightin’
You did was worth a cent.
I charge for time two dollars,
As lawyers should, ’tis plain;
The balance of the twenty
I give you back again.

“I like to be obligin’
To folks with all my powers,
So when you next want fightin’
Don’t come in office hours;
I only make my charges
For what’s in legal time,—
Drop in, my son, this evenin’,
And I’ll not charge a dime.”

The young man took the guerdon,
As he had ta’en the scars;
Then took himself awayward
To the ’Ginia City cars.
’Tis glorious when heroes
Go in to right their wrongs;
But if you’re only hair-pins,
Oh, then beware of tongs!

JOSEPHI IN BENICIA

There was a man who spent his mortal life
A-prisoning until there came a war;
And with the war there came an enemy,
And with the enemy came dynamite,
And with the dynamite the engineers
Histed that prison-house, and with it all
That was therein. And when the man came down
And lay a-dying, round the chaplain lit,
And asked him “What of life?” and he replied,
“To me this life has been a blasted cell.”
And so he died like any other man,
And thus it is things work among mankind.

The great Josephi—the piano lord—
When in the land of California
Was duly published for Benicia,
Yet never once put in; and then arose
Dame Rumour with a hundred thousand tongues,
And people said that he had bust his wires,
And had neuralgia in his sounding-board,
And the dyspepsia in his pedal joint,
And the stricnosis in his upper keys,—
Yet all was false, and I will tell you why.
The day before he was to have gone in
Unto his glory in Benicia,
There came a visitor whose sun-grilled face
And grand prize pumpkin air had all the style
Of a Maud Muller’s father; and this man,
Being shown in, remarked, “I s’pose you air
Mister Joseephee?” To him in reply
The small piano-smasher nodded “Yes.”
And thus the agriculturist went on:—
“I’m from Beneesh, I am, and I belong
To the Town Council—that is my posish.
Down here disposin’ of my barley, and
I thort I’d call and see yer, being as
Yer comin’ down ter-morrer fur to play.”
“Ja, dot is so,” replied the music man.
“Ye see, yer comin’ to a stranger town,
And so I thort I’d let yer hev some pints
About the programme. We’re a-payin’ yer
A pot o’ money, and of course yer want
To suit the ordience.” “Vell, vot you like,”
Exclaimed the great musician. “I can blay
Chopin, Beethoven, Liszt—ja! all de crate
Gombosers, and I gifes you vot you shoose.”
“I never heerd them tunes,” replied his guest.
“Do yer know ‘Nancy Lee’?” “Not I, bei Gott!”
“Nor ‘Mary Ann’?” “Nein” (_very haughtily_).
“The ‘Spanish Dona’—the ‘Monastery Bells’?”
“Gott’s dammerwetter! Himmelspotzen—NEIN!”
“Wall, now, whar did ye learn? My darter Sue
Goes to Miss Lynch’s, and she knows ’em all,
An’ plays ’em all by heart right straight along.
I never thought her no great shakes, and yet
She’s clean ahead of you.” A gloomy pause
Ensued, and two long glares. Then he set on,
“What kind o’ dancing music are ye gwine
To fetch along? for that’s the heavy jerk.”
“_Tantz musik!_” Oh, the horror of the voice
Of great Josephi when he heard these words.
“Yes, certinly. Ain’t ye a-goin’ to play
Fur dancing arter supper? Wot d’ye s’pose
We’re gwine to pay yer fur?” (Here came the squall.)
“Go to der Teufel mit your tantz musik!
Dere-to your tauter also. Sapperment!
Verflucht sei deine Seele—do you dink
I coom to blay fur caddle? I ton’t go
Unto Benicia. Dell your veller-bigs
Your tauter blays in my blace—in de blace
Of Herr Josephi—do you oonderstand,
You hundert tousend plasted _Schweinigel_!”
And in the rustic’s face he slammed the door.

He did not play in fair Benicia,
And in that town he is not popular;
And in its leading circles seven out
Of eight regard him as a German fraud,
Who cannot even play “My Mary Ann.”
And thus it is they think he is a sell,
And thus it is things work among mankind.

THE STORY OF A LIE

Who asks an ape to throw a coco-nut
Should take it not amiss if it be thrown
On his own head, as echo answers song.

There was a man named Jesse, who was called
The greatest liar in Connecticut.
For there are giants among the Brobdingnags.

It was a burning day, and William Hoop
Sat in the shade, when Jess came riding by.
When wolves run past your door-step, let them run.

But William cried, “Stop for a moment, Jess,
And tell us a big lie.” Jesse liked it not.
Ne’er ask a hangman how to tie a noose.

But hastily and sadly he replied,
“This is no time for lying now; oh, woe!”
A wanton widow may wear darkest weeds.

“Your Uncle Sol died very suddenly
An hour ago, and you would have me lie!”
Who weaveth nets is often caught in them.

“And I am riding for the coroner,
And for a coffin. William, learn from this
_Never while living ask a man to lie_.”

Then William ran in and told his wife,
And he and she and all the family
Burst into tears. The thistle soon bears thorns.

And in his waggon, leaving everything,
They posted off and on, four miles away.
The eagle hastens at the eaglet’s cry.

And when arrived they found the family
In the large kitchen, but in ne’er a grief.
It pains a man at times to miss his pain.

There Uncle Sol was buried—to the eyes,
In a great water-melon, lush and red.
Life’s sweetest things are water after all:

Which rises in a mist, and comes again
As rainy tears. And William almost wept
For rage, because he had no cause to cry.

But after this he never did entreat
Another man to tell a lie to him.
Burnt child seeks not a second time the fire.

THE LEGEND OF SAINT ANTHONY

The seek-no-further face of loveliness,
The perfect form of fawn-like springfulness,
Rich as a bonanza just unbound:
Catherine Van Peyster, of Fifth Avenue.

She lived a year in Europe—but for aye
In all the hearts of all who met her there;
And then her pa allowed her boundless cash,
Which she laid out in glorious works of art.

Such as the dream-like dresses made by Worth,
And heavenly hats by Virot, and all things
Refined, æsthetic, swell, and classical;
Yea, even a picture—she bought everything.

’Tis true it was a picture of herself,
And when she ordered it she simply said,
“I know that I am very beautiful,
My mirror tells me that—distinctively;

“But I am also very clever too,
For I am of a clever family,
Papa and sisters all are awful smart;
Now you must make it somehow sparkle out

“In what you paint. And as for me I guess
I’ll show you how to fix it—wait a bit.
Ain’t there a saint they call Saint Catherine?
One of my beaux, I think, once called me that.”

“_Si, Illustrissima_,” the artist said,
“Dere is a Santa Catarina, who
Is beautiful most of the oder sants,
Vitch giusto suit so lovely mad as you!

“And she do always hold opon a vheel.”
“I see!” cried Miss Van Peyster—“just the thing,
The wheel of fortune—and the loveliest saint;
That’s me exactly. What a perfect fit!”

And so ’twas painted, and the painted pair,
Saint Catherine and Miss Catherine, went across
Unto New York; and many people came
To call and worship—or to make believe.

And with the rest came Mr. Anthony,
A blooming broker, and a mighty man,
Who did not think small brewings of himself,
Albeit his studies had been very small,

And very few i’ the heap. His face and form
Were greasiness and grossness well combined,
With sneeriness and nearness in the eyes;
He seemed a kind of coarsest Capuchin.

And much he did admire the quaint conceit
Of being taken as a holy saint,
And said, “I’d like to try that thing myself.
How could a feller fix it——Catherine?”

“Easy enough,” replied the beautiful:
“You’ve only got to send your photograph
Out to my man in Florence, and to say,
‘_Vous peignez moi comme le Saint Anthony_.’

“I’ll write it for you if you have a card,
And he will fix it for you _comme il faut_.”
That very hour the heavy shaver wrote,
And sent the order for his portraiture.

And in due time ’twas done—and further on
’Twas in the Custom House—and thence ’twas sent
To the Spring Exhibition in New York,
There was no time to send it to “the House.”

And Anthony himself beheld it not
Till it had hung a week upon “the walls,”
And all the newspapers had served it up,
And all the world had merry made withal.

Yea, he _was_ in it—clad in dirty rags,
A vile abomination. In his hand
A monstrous rosary. The Sunday Press
Said ’twas a rope of onions, meant to feed

The monstrous hog which filled the canvas up,
So vast in its proportions that it seemed
As Anthony were waiting on the hog,
And not the hog upon Saint Anthony.

In it and in for it. Just as the Saint
Of Padua is painted, with his pig,
Only a little more so. And thus ends
The tale of the great hog and Anthony.

A RUSSIAN LYRIC
AIR—“_Denkst du daran mein tapfre Lagienka._”

“SALTOKOFF SKUPCHIROFSKY,” said the ruler
Of Russia to his captain of the guard,
“I will retire; the night is growing cooler
Have all the troops been posted in the yard?”
“They have, my liege, and in the tower o’er you
The watchman, with an opera-glass, afar
Looks out to see that no one comes to bore you:
_Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

“What have you done with him who came this morning,
And wanted me to buy a lightning-rod?”
“He sleeps beneath the Neva, as a warning
To others like him, not as yet in quod.”
“The girl who bored us for a contribution
To send her blessed clergyman afar?”
“She’s strangled by the Seventh Resolution:
_Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

“And where is he who gave us the conniptions,
That cheeky man from the United States,
Who came unto my bedside for subscriptions
To—what was it?—the ‘Life of Sergeant Bates’?”
“Upon a special train that man is flying
Unto Siberia in a third-class car;
Thou badest him ‘dry up!’ and he is drying:
_Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

“And where is he who bored us for insurance
On life or fire, who down the chimney came?”
“My liege, beneath our feet in deepest durance
He pays with penance for his little game.”
“And, after him, the pedlar who came plungin’
Into the parlour, smoking a cigar?”
“Ask of the vipers in the palace dungeon:
_Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

“And that young man who always kept a-saying,
‘That is the kind of hair-pin that I am’?”
“My liege, the strychnine in his vitals playing
May tell you how I stopped that kind of flam.
“And he who at this day is still repeating,
‘What, never, never?’” “In a butt of tar
We coopered _him_. His heart’s no longer beating:
_Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

“And where is he who on the imperial fences
Inscribed _Pop’s Bitters_, and _Take Fooler’s Pills_?”
“My lord, his medicines were no defences,
In Hades he atones for earthly ills.”
“And that confounded nuisance of a Scotch Guard
Who played the bagpipes up and down the car?”
“My lord, the imperial headsman wears his watch-guard:
_Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

“Captain, ’tis well. Now telegraph to London
That every Nihilist has had his dose,
And that a fresh conspiracy is undone,
And keep the gum-drop, corn-ball peddlers close
Who spread sedition in the trains to ’stress me;
And keep the gates of anarchy ajar;
So may Saint Feoderskidobry bless thee!
_Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

MELODRAMNATION

“Now Mr. Gallagher is satisfied.”
So says the Boston _Post_. The facts are these:
He is the chief of a theatric club,
And as he deems that he can melodram,
He melodrammed for it a mighty piece
Of thundering incidents and awful scenes,
Which called for just nine actors. And they all
Declared that each had got the worst and curst
Of all the parts, and that ’twas written thus
To boom the fame of selfish Gallagher;
So the first night they came upon the boards,
With hearts like hornets and with souls like snakes
And feeling like old pizen, all agog
To be revenged upon the common foe,
Who was to act the hero. _Act the first_:
The hero and his mother meet to part,
And on her shoulders and o’er all her bust
The parent had put pins by papersful,
Till she was like a frightful porcupine;
And when she pressed her darling to her breast,
The pins _en masse_ entered his very soul,
And pricked his nose, and ran into his cheeks,
So that he howled; but his mamma held on,
Easing her heart with rapturous revenge
While agonizing his. In the next act
He was on shipboard, and ’twas in the plot
That he should be knocked down and cuffed about
By a most cruel captain; and, God knows,
The captain played that part most perfectly,
Since in the start he went for Gallagher
With a belaying-pin, and laid him out
_Secundum artem_, and then let him up,
Only to let into him twice as hot,
’Mid rapturous hurrahs. In the next act
The hero led the crew to mutiny,
And Gallagher was glorious; but just then
Some one let down the trap on which he stood,
And there he was, up to his waist in stage,
Unable to get up or to go down,
And thus they kept him in captivity
While all the audience guyed him. When he strove
To climb they lowered him, and when he sought
To dodge beneath they highered him again;
So he went up and down like Erie stock
Until the scene was shifted. In the next
He fought the villain of the play, and this
Was Mr. Hencoop Smith, a stalwart rogue,
Extremely high on muscle, and the way
He lathered Gallagher about the stage
Was Awful Gardener. And when Smith should cry,
“Forgive me—I am crushed!” and Gallagher
Replied, “I’ll have your life!” the hero lay
Under the table, while his adversary
Bemauled him with a chair-leg. It was o’er,
And Gallagher, all black and blue, went home
To plotter out revenge. On the next night
The piece was adverred to be played again,
And Gallagher sent round a messenger,
Who said he was too ill to play his part,
But he would send a substitute. He did—
A giant-like ferocious prize-fighter,
Under another name. And how he played!
He squeezed the mother into raving fits,
And jerked her wig away by accident,
And threw the cruel captain down the trap,
And larruped all the actors; and when Smith
Came on to fight, he took him by the heels
And mopped the stage with him until ’twas clean,
Then hurled him through the flat. All was a wreck:
And in the front seat sat the Gallagher
And laughed until he cried. Revenge is sweet!

A TALE OF IDAHO

When they had finished the ethnology,
And polished up the climate and the crops,
And glorified the different kinds of bugs,
And told in turn their lies about the snakes,
And fish and deer and things, of Idaho,
A pensive cuss in spectacles inquired,
“All this is well enough; now how about
Your educational facilities?
And let me see in dots the time they go.”

“And that’s the only thing we really lack,”
Replied the Ancient, with a silvery sigh;
“We do defect in _that_ ostensibly.
We have the schools, but then we cannot git
The folks to run ’em, or who will remain
Adjacent to ’em, for they will not keep.”
“How!—do they _die_?” “Wall, some on ’em expired,
Though Idaho ain’t an expirin’ State;
But I will tell you just the time they go.

“We had a fine young fellow from the East;
He licked the boys, and also kissed the gals,
And was all round uncommon popular,
Bein’ likewise an awful fightin’ man,
And there he _did_ slop over. For one day
He met a grizzly bar upon the prowl,
And whistled to it, and the grizzly _come_;
But when he went he carried by express
All of that fine young man inside of him;
And that is just about the time they go.

“We had another from Connecticut:
A widder run him down, and married him
Inside the very school-house where he taught,
Just as an Injun cooks a terrapin
In its own shell, or as a lovely deer
Is sometimes aboriginally biled
Inside of its own skin, for that poor man
Has been in bilin’ water ever sense:
They say she makes it solemn hot for him.
And that is just about the time they go.

“The third was well enough, but he was lame;
I needn’t tell you how _that_ one got spiled;
For sense he couldn’t run, one day, of course,
The Injuns overtook him, and the way
They treated him was pretty nigh as bad
As if they had been widders, and that man
Their lawful spouse. They also made it hot,
Because they took and briled him at the stake.
And that is just about the time they go.

“Then we tried women-folks to keep the school.
We writ for one. She came; and as she lit
Down from the stage, a man proposed to her
And was accepted, and she married him
That very night; in fact, within an hour
He gin a party, and we had a dance;
But Education suffered all the same,
As she declined to teach, bein’ inclined
To conjugate—excuse my little joke;
But that is just about the time they go.

“The second—wall, _I took_ the second one
About the middle of the week she come;
But telegraphed unto the Institute,
‘Send on some more; keep sending of ’em on.’
And so they kept a-comin’, but they kep’
A-going speedier than they arrove,
For the third lady was abducted by
A highwayman before she got to us—
She took it awful kindly, I believe.
And that is just about the time they go.”

“But why,” exclaimed the wondering traveller,
“Don’t you obtain a scareful, ugly one—
Some hideous old faggot, just like that
Tremendous terror with the lantern-jaws
By yonder ticket-window? She would keep.”
“Alas! how strange,” replied the Ancient Man;
“How is it that you people from the East
Will never understand us pioneers?
That woman is my wife—the very one
I cut away from school; and she’s by far
The handsomest there was in all the drove.
For that is just about the time they go.”

A CALIFORNIAN ROMANCE

Know’st thou the burning lay of Dante’s own,
“_Nix mangiare é il diavolo!_
_Ma peggior la donna?_” that’s to say,
“’Tis hard to be hard up, but harder still
To get ahead of women.” Never much,
While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

Oh, listen to me, for the tale I tell
Is of Chicago, and the latest out,
And by the noble _Tribune_ novelist.
“Say, do you mean it, honest Injun, now?”
Said Vivian O’Riley to his sire.
“And faith I do,” the earnest sire replied:
“Marry this girl if so ye choose, me son,
But—if ye do—the divil a ha’penny
Of all me fortune will yees ever see,
While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-hids shine.”

Two hours have passed, and so have eight or ten
Slow-rolling tramway cars, until there comes
The one which Vivian wants, and soon it lands
The lover at the door of Pericles
O’Rourke, the father of _bellissima_,
The Lady Ethelberta. Lo, she sits
In her boudoir (the high-toned word for “room”),
Casting her soul in reverie o’er the trees,
While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

“I have bad news for you, my utmost own,”
Said Vivian in sad tones unto his love.
“Cusses and crocuses upon my luck!
And damns and daffodils on everything!”
And as he spoke there came into his face
A grey old scaly look which seemed to say,
_Don’t bluff or you’ll be called_. “My dad and I
Have had a round about, and he has dis—
Sis—sis—inherited me; and I have
Been given the g.-b. on your account,
My be—b—beau—tiful. And I am now
A beg—egg—eggar for you, Bertie dear!
While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

Her soft dusk eyes grew wide and serious.

“Yes,” he continued, “I am regular poor,
Poor as a busted Indian, and of course
It follows in the logic of our life
That I must give you up. I cannot ask
One in the golden glory of events
To come and share a fate which runs upon
A thousand annual dollars. Ne’er a case.
While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”

She looked at him with an incarnadine,
Rich, passionate, scarlet-sanguine crimson flush
Surging into her cheeks. If it had been
A _full_, ’tis probable that Vivian
Would have gone under; but a _flush_
Could never scare him or his similar,
While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

“Oh, Vivian!” she gurgled, like a dove,
“Oh, do you think I will let up on you?
And do you deem I would go back upon
The note I signed, and run to protest?—no—
Not while the snowy paper of my truth
Is quiréd by the young-eyed cherubim,
And in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”

Three months or ninety days went by, and then
Upon a golden Californian
December afternoon, with azure skies
Like those of summer as they are produced
In less expensive countries, men beheld
A diamondaine wedding at the house
Of Ethelberta’s sire. As Vivian
And his fair bride sat in the car—ri—age
Which bore them to the station, ever on
She gazed upon him like a Lamia
With a strange look, which one might call, in fact,
A weirdly precious smile. He gazed at her.
“And so you would not leave me, love?” he cooed,
“Even when you thought me poor?” And she replied,
“Never, my precious one. I learned lang syne
That when a sucker once drops off the hook
It never bites again. And well you know
That you were on the point of dropping off,
And so your pa and I put up the job
So as to land you, dear—as faith we did—
A little quicker. Oh, men, men, men, men!
If ye thus round, girls _will_ get square with you,
While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”

THE STORY OF MR. SCROPER, ARCHITECT

Yes, I’ll tell you how it happened—that, too, with all due respect
To the memory of Scroper, late departed architect—
How it came that he departed so abruptly in the train;
Why it was he’s been so late, too, in returnin’ back again.

Now some folks are born to greatness, some achieve it, as you’ve read;
And some justly stand and take it as it dollops on their head;
But in this sublime Republic, where it’s help and help again,
We all generally make it in cahoot with other men.

Scroper was a fine young fellow, of a monstrous enterprise;
Likewise really ambitious, for he was so bound to rise,
And he left no stone unturned—nor a log—he rolled ’em all,
Till at last he got the contract for our new great City Hall.

Now, of all our mortal actors here upon this earthly stage,
The contractors have the hardest parts to play, I will engage;
Specially in bran-new cities, just between the knead and bake,
And where all the population are severely on the make.

What between the Common Council, and the more uncommon sort,
Politicians, Press, and preachers, Scroper fell uncommon short.
All of such as come a-plummin’ when a puddin’s to be had;
All against his best contractin’ counteractin’ mighty bad.

Therefore when this edificial had got up his edifice,
All who’d not been edifishing with him soon got up a hiss;
Said the stuff upon the buildin’ was the worst that could be had,
Likewise called the architexture architechnically bad.

So it came one solemn evenin’ in a Presbyterian rain
Mr. Scroper all in silence gently took the Northern train;
All he left was one small message to a friend who shared his home,—
_When the darned affair blows over, telegraph for me to come_.

So he sat one summer mornin’, far away in Montreal,
Musin’ on his recent patrons, while at heart he darned ’em all,
When there came a little letter datin’ from his recent home,—
“_All the thing is quite blown over, back again we bid you come_.

“_For last night we had a tempest,—while the mighty thunder rang,_
_Up there came a real guster, which blew down the whole shebang._
(_Shebang_’s a word from Hebrew, meanin’ Seven, sayeth Krupp,
And applied to any shanty where they play at seven-up.)