Bret Harte (Francis)

I have found out a gift for my fair; I know where the fossils abound, Where the footprints of Aves declare

They ran through the streets of the seaport town, They peered from the decks of the ships that lay; The cold sea-fog that came whitening down

Above the bones St. Ursula owns, And those of the virgins she chaperons;

If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B., Had one peculiar quality, 'Twas his severe advocacy

They say that she died of a broken heart (I tell the tale as 'twas told to me); But her spirit lives, and her soul is part

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,

Last night, above the whistling wind, I heard the welcome rain, A fusillade upon the roof,

I read last night of the grand review In Washington's chiefest avenue, Two hundred thousand men in blue,

Brief words, when actions wait, are well: The prompter's hand is on his bell; The coming heroes, lovers, kings,

What I want is my husband, sir, And if you're a man, sir, You'll give me an answer,

Here's yer toy balloons! All sizes! Twenty cents for that. It rises Jest as quick as that 'ere, Miss,

Where the short-legged Esquimaux Waddle in the ice and snow, And the playful Polar bear

Dramatis Person' First Tourist Second Tourist

Dramatis Person' Poet. Philosopher. Jones of Mariposa. Poet

Certain facts which serve to explain The physical charms of Miss Addie De Laine, Who, as the common reports obtain,

Know I not whom thou mayst be Carved upon this olive-tree, 'Manuela of La Torre,'

What was it filled my youthful dreams, In place of Greek or Latin themes, Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams?

(Malvern Hill, 1864) 'After the men were ordered to lie down, a white rabbit, which had been hopping hither and thither over the field swept by grape and musketry, took refuge among the skirmishers, in the breast of a corporal.' - Report of the Battle of Malvern Hill.

Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize, A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze Of flaring gas and curious eyes that gaze.

Canto I I Act first, scene first. A study. Of a kind

Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,

Oh, come, my beloved, from thy winter abode, From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed; For the waters have fallen, the winter has fled,

We know him well: no need of praise Or bonfire from the windy hill To light to softer paths and ways

Beautiful! Sir, you may say so. Thar isn't her match in the county; Is thar, old gal, Chiquita, my darling, my beauty? Feel of that neck, sir, thar's velvet! Whoa! steady, ah, will you, you vixen!

Cicely says you're a poet; maybe, I ain't much on rhyme: I reckon you'd give me a hundred, and beat me every time. Poetry! that's the way some chaps puts up an idee,

I Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and quaint, By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint,

Blown out of the prairie in twilight and dew, Half bold and half timid, yet lazy all through; Loath ever to leave, and yet fearful to stay,

No life in earth, or air, or sky; The sunbeams, broken silently, On the bared rocks around me lie,

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Dear Dolly! who does not recall The thrilling page that pictured all Those charms that held our sense in thrall

Good! said the Padre, believe me still, 'Don Giovanni,' or what you will, The type's eternal! We knew him here

Dow's flat. That's its name; And I reckon that you Are a stranger? The same?

'The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, The spray of the tempest is white in air; The winds are out with the waves at play,

As you look from the plaza at Leon west You can see her house, but the view is best From the porch of the church where she lies at rest;

It was the morning season of the year; It was the morning era of the land; The watercourses rang full loud and clear;

Do I sleep? do I dream? Do I wonder and doubt? Are things what they seem?

I mind it was but yesterday: The sun was dim, the air was chill; Below the town, below the hill,

Coward, of heroic size, In whose lazy muscles lies Strength we fear and yet despise;

Two low whistles, quaint and clear: That was the signal the engineer That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said

'So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you met on the train, And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her again?' 'Of course,' he replied, 'she would know me; there never was womankind yet

June 4th! Do you know what that date means? June 4th! By this air and these pines! Well, only you know how I hate scenes,

I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe even you would admire,

Being asked by an intimate party, Which the same I would term as a friend, Though his health it were vain to call hearty,

Down the picket-guarded lane Rolled the comfort-laden wain, Cheered by shouts that shook the plain,

Father Felipe I speak not the English well, but Pachita, She speak for me; is it not so, my Pancha?

Didn't know Flynn, Flynn of Virginia, Long as he's been 'yar?

Shrewdly you question, Senor, and I fancy You are no novice. Confess that to little Of my poor gossip of Mission and Pueblo

Say there! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild?

Have you heard the story that gossips tell Of Burns of Gettysburg? No? Ah, well: Brief is the glory that hero earns,

When I bought you for a song, Years ago Lord knows how long! I was struck I may be wrong

This is that hill of awe That Persian Sindbad saw, The mount magnetic;

Wot's that you're readin'? a novel? A novel! well, darn my skin! You a man grown and bearded and histin' such stuff ez that in Stuff about gals and their sweethearts! No wonder you're thin ez a knife.

Captain of the Western wood, Thou that apest Robin Hood! Green above thy scarlet hose,

It was spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mamma moved in Next door, just as skating was over, and marbles about to begin; For the fence in our back yard was broken, and I saw, as I peeped through the slat,

And you are the poet, and so you want Something what is it? a theme, a fancy? Something or other the Muse won't grant

Oh, you're the girl lives on the corner? Come in if you want to come quick! There's no one but me in the house, and the cook but she's only a stick. Don't try the front way, but come over the fence through the window that's how.

'Crying!' Of course I am crying, and I guess you would be crying, too, If people were telling such stories as they tell about me, about you. Oh yes, you can laugh if you want to, and smoke as you didn't care how,

My papa knows you, and he says you're a man who makes reading for books; But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did Papa, I know by his looks. So I guess you're like me when I talk, and I talk, and I talk all the day,

Maud Muller all that summer day Raked the meadow sweet with hay; Yet, looking down the distant lane,

Lo! where the castle of bold Pfeiffer throws Its sullen shadow on the rolling tide, No more the home where joy and wealth repose,

I 'Have a care!' the bailiffs cried From their cockleshell that lay

O poor Romancer thou whose printed page, Filled with rude speech and ruder forms of strife, Was given to heroes in whose vulgar rage

Brown foundling of the Western wood, Babe of primeval wildernesses! Long on my table thou hast stood

This is the reed the dead musician dropped, With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden; The prompt allegro of its music stopped,

BOBBY, aetat. 3'. JOHNNY, aetat. 4'. BOBBY DO you know why they've put us in that back room,

Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls, And battle dews lie wet, To meet the charge that treason hurls

So you've kem 'yer agen, And one answer won't do? Well, of all the derned men

Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark

We meet in peace, though from our native East The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast Glanced as he rose on fields whose dews were red

Drunk and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face, More like brute than any man

Thomas Starr King. Obiit March 4, 1864 Came the relief. 'What, sentry, ho! How passed the night through thy long waking?'

Serene, indifferent of Fate, Thou sittest at the Western Gate; Upon thy height, so lately won,

It was very hot. Not a breath of air was stirring throughout the western wing of the Greyport Hotel, and the usual feverish life of its four hundred inmates had succumbed to the weather. The great veranda was deserted; the corridors were desolated; no footfall echoed in the passages; the lazy rustle of a wandering skirt, or a passing sigh that was half a pant, seemed to intensify the heated silence. An intoxicated bee, disgracefully unsteady in wing and leg, who had been holding an inebriated conversation with himself in the corner of my window pane, had gone to sleep at last and was snoring. The errant prince might have entered the slumberous halls unchallenged, and walked into any of the darkened rooms whose open doors gaped for more air, without awakening the veriest Greyport flirt with his salutation. At times a drowsy voice, a lazily interjected sentence, an incoherent protest, a long-drawn phrase of saccharine tenuity suddenly broke off with a gasp, came vaguely to the ear, as if indicating a half-suspended, half-articulated existence somewhere, but not definite enough to indicate conversation. In the midst of this, there was the sudden crying of a child. I looked up from my work. Through the camera of my jealously guarded window I could catch a glimpse of the vivid, quivering blue of the sky, the glittering intensity of the ocean, the long motionless leaves of the horse-chestnut in the road, all utterly inconsistent with anything as active as this lamentation. I stepped to the open door and into the silent hall. Apparently the noise had attracted the equal attention of my neighbors. A vague chorus of 'Sarah Walker,' in querulous recognition, of 'O Lord! that child again!' in hopeless protest, rose faintly from the different rooms. As the lamentations seemed to approach nearer, the visitors' doors were successively shut, swift footsteps hurried along the hall; past my open door came a momentary vision of a heated nursemaid carrying a tumultuous chaos of frilled skirts, flying sash, rebellious slippers, and tossing curls; there was a moment's rallying struggle before the room nearly opposite mine, and then a door opened and shut upon the vision. It was Sarah Walker!

Know me next time when you see me, won't you, old smarty? Oh, I mean you, old figger-head, just the same party! Take out your pensivil, d n you; sharpen it, do!

I. THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL Affection's charm no longer gilds The idol of the shrine;

Very fair and full of promise Lay the island of St. Thomas: Ocean o'er its reefs and bars

Don't mind me, I beg you, old fellow, I'll do very well here alone; You must not be kept from your 'German' because I've dropped in like a stone. Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught but yourself;

'I was with Grant' the stranger said; Said the farmer, 'Say no more, But rest thee here at my cottage porch,

Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music Still fills the wide expanse, Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present

'Something characteristic,' eh? Humph! I reckon you mean by that Something that happened in our way,

Where the sturdy ocean breeze Drives the spray of roaring seas, That the Cliff House balconies

Oh, say, have you seen at the Willows so green So charming and rurally true A singular bird, with a manner absurd,

Did I ever tell you, my dears, the way That the birds of Cisseter 'Cisseter!' eh? Well 'Ciren-cester' one ought to say,

There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps, Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps, Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air,

Why, as to that, said the engineer, Ghosts ain't things we are apt to fear; Spirits don't fool with levers much,

'Who comes?' The sentry's warning cry Rings sharply on the evening air: Who comes? The challenge: no reply,

We checked our pace, the red road sharply rounding; We heard the troubled flow Of the dark olive depths of pines resounding

Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark

No, I won't, thar, now, so! And it ain't nothin', no! And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know; And it's 'Belle, tell us, do!' and it's 'Belle, is it true?'

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

Beetling walls with ivy grown, Frowning heights of mossy stone; Turret, with its flaunting flag

In sixteen hundred and forty-one, The regular yearly galleon, Laden with odorous gums and spice,

High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover, Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet, She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr

This is the tale that the Chronicle Tells of the wonderful miracle Wrought by the pious Padre Serro,

O bells that rang, O bells that sang Above the martyrs' wilderness, Till from that reddened coast-line sprang

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting, By furrowed glade and dell, To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting,

Now shift the blanket pad before your saddle back you fling, And draw your cinch up tighter till the sweat drops from the ring: We've a dozen miles to cover ere we reach the next divide.

Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can come: For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at home; And my leg is getting troublesome, it laid me up last fall,

So you're back from your travels, old fellow, And you left but a twelvemonth ago; You've hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon,

Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands, And of armed men the hum; Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered

He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met; A stole and snowy alb likewise, I recollect it yet. He called me 'daughter,' as he raised his jeweled hand to bless;

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row

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,

It was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his back to the wheelers, Quietly flecking his whip, and turning his quid of tobacco; While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the moonlight,

An empty bench, a sky of grayest etching, A bare, bleak shed in blackest silhouette, Twelve years of platform, and before them stretching

Name of my heroine, simply 'Rose;' Surname, tolerable only in prose; Habitat, Paris, that is where

We hev tumbled ez dust Or ez worms of the yearth; Wot we looked for hez bust!

As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest, Looking over the ultimate sea, In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest,

The skies they were ashen and sober, The streets they were dirty and drear; It was night in the month of October,

Of all the fountains that poets sing, Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring, Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth,

It is the story of Thompson of Thompson, the hero of Angels. Frequently drunk was Thompson, but always polite to the stranger; Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his revolver;

"Speak, O man less recent! Fragmentary fossil! Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,

Sauntering hither on listless wings, Careless vagabond of the sea, Little thou heedest the surf that sings,

'Speak, O man, less recent! Fragmentary fossil! Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum

Which it is not my style To produce needless pain By statements that rile

Beg your pardon, old fellow! I think I was dreaming just now when you spoke. The fact is, the musical clink

Our window's not much, though it fronts on the street; There's a fly in the pane that gets nothin' to eat; But it's curious how people think it's a treat

O Joy of creation To be! O rapture to fly

Over the chimney the night-wind sang And chanted a melody no one knew; And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed,

What was it the Engines said, Pilots touching, head to head Facing on the single track,

Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair, Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare? 'Why are my eyelids so open and wild?'