THE NANTUCKET SKIPPER.
Many a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though "lying low," How near New York their schooners ran.
They greased the lead before it fell, And then by sounding through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck so well, They always guessed their reckoning right.
A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, Could tell, by tasting, just the spot, And so below he'd "douse the glim,"— After, of course, his "something hot."
Snug in his berth at eight o'clock, This ancient skipper might be found; No matter how his craft would rock, He slept,—for skippers' naps are sound.
The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He'd up, and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead.
One night 'twas Jotham Marden's watch, A curious wag,—the pedler's son; And so he mused, (the wanton wretch!) "To-night I'll have a grain of fun.
"We're all a set of stupid fools, To think the skipper knows, by tasting, What ground he's on; Nantucket schools Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting!"
And so he took the well-greased lead, And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck,—a parsnip-bed,— And then he sought the skipper's berth.
"Where are we now, sir? Please to taste." The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Opened his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung!
The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, Hauled on his boots, and roared to Marden, "Nantucket's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!"
JAMES THOMAS FIELDS.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Portrait

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

After a photogravure from life-photograph.

THE ONE-HOSS SHAY; OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE. A LOGICAL STORY.
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then of a sudden, it—ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,— Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive,— Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in the building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot,— In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,—lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will,— Above or below, or within or without,— And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn't break daown; —"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,— That was for spokes and door and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"— Last of its timber,—they couldn't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through." "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!" Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren,—where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
Eighteen hundred;—it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten;— "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came;— Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then came fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it.—You're welcome.—No extra charge.)
First of November,—the Earthquake-day.— There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local as one may say. There couldn't be,—for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start, For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out!
First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. "Huddup!" said the parson.—Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text,— Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the—Moses—was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meetin'-house on the hill. —First a shiver and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,— And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half past nine by the meetin'-house clock,— Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! —What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,— All at once, and nothing first,— Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
GRIGGSBY'S STATION.
Pap's got his patent right, and rich as all creation; But where's the peace and comfort that we all had before? Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station— Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
The likes of us a-livin' here! It's just a mortal pity To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the stairs, And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! city! city!— And nothin' but the city all around us ever' wheres!
Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple, And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree! And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people, And none that neighbors with us, or we want to go and see!
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station— Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door, And ever' neighbor 'round the place is dear as a relation— Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit and bilin' A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday through; And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and pilin' Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do!
I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin'; And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand, And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin', Till her pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his land.
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's station— Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' anymore; Shet away safe in the woods around the old location— Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin', And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone, And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's growin', And smile as I have saw her 'fore she put her mournin' on.
And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty— Where John our oldest boy, he was tuk and buried—for His own sake and Katy's—and I want to cry with Katy As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War.
What's all this grand life and high situation, And nary pink nor hollyhawk bloomin' at the door?— Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station— Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
HE'D HAD NO SHOW.
Joe Beall 'ud set upon a keg Down to the groc'ry store, an' throw One leg right over t'other leg An' swear he'd never had no show, "O, no," said Joe, "Hain't hed no show," Then shift his quid to t'other jaw, An' chaw, an' chaw, an' chaw, an' chaw.
He said he got no start in life, Didn't get no money from his dad, The washin' took in by his wife Earned all the funds he ever had. "O, no," said Joe, "Hain't hed no show," An' then he'd look up at the clock An' talk, an' talk, an' talk, an' talk.
"I've waited twenty year—let's see— Yes, twenty-four, an' never struck, Altho, I've sot roun' patiently, The fust tarnation streak er luck. O, no," said Joe, "Hain't hed no show," Then stuck like mucilage to the spot, An' sot, an' sot, an' sot, an' sot.
"I've come down regerlar every day For twenty years to Piper's store. I've sot here in a patient way, Say, hain't I, Piper?" Piper swore. "I tell ye, Joe, Yer hain't no show; Yer too dern patient"—ther hull raft Jest laffed, an' laffed, an' laffed, an' laffed.
SAM WALTER FOSS.
THE MYSTIFIED QUAKER IN NEW YORK.
Respected Wife: By these few lines my whereabouts thee'll learn: Moreover, I impart to thee my serious concern. The language of this people is a riddle unto me; For words with them are figments of a reckless mockery. For instance, as I left the cars, a youth with smutty face Said, "Shine?" "Nay I'll not shine," I said, "except with inward grace." "What's inward grace?" said this young Turk; "A liquid or a paste? Hi, daddy, how does the old thing work?" I then said to a jehu, whose breath suggested gin, "Friend, can thee take me to a reputable inn?" But this man's gross irrelevance I shall not soon forget; Instead of simply Yea or Nay, he gruffly said, "You bet!" "Nay, nay, I will not bet," I said, "for that would be a sin. Why dost not answer plainly? can thee take me to an inn? Thy vehicle is doubtless made to carry folks about in; Why then prevaricate?" Said he, "Aha! well now, you're shoutin'!" "I did not shout," I said, "my friend; surely my speech is mild: But thine (I grieve to say it) with falsehood is defiled. Thee ought to be admonished to rid thy heart of guile." "Look here, my lovely moke," said he, "you sling on too much style." "I've had these plain drab garments twenty years or more," said I; "And when thee says I 'sling on style' thee tells a wilful lie." With that he pranced about as tho' a bee were in his bonnet, And with hostile demonstrations inquired if I was "on it." "On what? Till thee explain, I cannot tell," I said; But he swore that something was "too thin," moreover it was "played." But all his antics were surpassed in wild absurdity By threats, profanely emphasized, to "put a head" on me. "No son of Belial," I said, "that miracle can do." With that he fell upon me with blows and curses too; But failed to work that miracle, if such was his design; Instead of putting on a head, he strove to smite off mine. Thee knows that I profess the peaceful precepts of our sect, But this man's acts worked on me to a curious effect; And when he knocked my broad-brim off, and said, "How's that for high!" It roused the Adam in me, and I smote him hip and thigh. This was a signal for the crowd, for calumny broke loose; They said I'd "snatched him bald-headed," and likewise "cooked his goose." But yet I do affirm, that I had not pulled his hair; Nor had I cooked his poultry, for he had no poultry there. They called me "bully boy," though I have seen full three-score year; And they said that I was "lightning when I got upon my ear." And when I asked if lightning climbed its ear, and dressed in drab, "You know how 'tis yourself," said one insolent young blab. So I left them in disgust: plain-spoken men like me With such perverters of our tongue can have no unity.
ANONYMOUS.
TO THE "SEXTANT".
O Sextant of the meetin house, wich sweeps And dusts, or is supposed to! and makes fires, And lites the gass, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose, in wich case it smells orful, worse than lamp ile; And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dyes, to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps paths And for the servusses gets $100 per annum, Wich them that thinks deer, let 'em try it; Gettin up before starlite in all wethers and Kindlin fires when the wether is as cold As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlin, i wouldn't be hired to do it for no sum. But O Sextant! there are 1 kermoddity Wich's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin, Worth more than anything except the sole of man! i mean pewer Are, Sextant, i mean pewer are! O it is plenty out of doors, so plenty it doant no What on airth to dew with itself, but flys about Scatterin leaves and bloin off men's hatts! in short, it's jest as "fre as are" out dores, But O Sextant, in our church its scarce as buty, Scarce as bank bills, when agints begs for mischuns, Wich some say is purty offten (taint nothin to me, wat I give aint nothin to nobody) but O Sextant U shet 500 men, wimmin, and children, Speshally the latter, up in a tite place, And every 1 on em brethes in and out, and out and in, Say 50 times a minnit, or 1 million and a half breths an our. Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate, I ask you—say 15 minits—and then wats to be did? Why then they must brethe it all over agin, And then agin, and so on till each has took it down At least 10 times, and let it up agin, and wats more The same individoal don't have the priviledge of brethin his own are, and no ones else, Each one must take whatever comes to him. O Sextant, doant you no our lungs is bellusses, To blo the fier of life, and keep it from goin out; and how can bellusses blo without wind And aint wind are? i put it to your conschens. Are is the same to us as milk to babies, Or water is to fish, or pendlums to clox, Or roots and airbs unto an injun doctor, Or little pills unto an omepath, Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe, What signifies who preaches if i cant brethe? Wats Pol? Wats Pollus to sinners who are ded? Ded for want of breth, why Sextant, when we dy Its only coz we can't brethe no more, thats all. And now O Sextant, let me beg of you To let a little are into our church. (Pewer are is sertain proper for the pews) And do it weak days, and Sundays tew, It aint much trouble, only make a hole And the are will come of itself; (It luvs to come in where it can git warm) And O how it will rouze the people up, And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps, And yawns and figgits, as effectooal As wind on the dry boans the Profit tells of.
ARABELLA M. WILLSON.
JIM BLUDSO OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE. PIKE COUNTY BALLADS.
Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Becase he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three year That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks The night of the Prairie Belle?
He weren't no saint,—them engineers Is all pretty much alike,— One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill And another one here, in Pike; A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward hand in a row, But he never flunked, and he never lied,— I reckon he never knowed how.
And this was all the religion he had,— To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire,— A thousand times he swore He 'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.
All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last,— The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn't be passed. And so she come tearin' along that night— The oldest craft on the line— With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot 's ashore."
Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And, sure 's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,— And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He weren't no saint,—but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,— And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a going to be too hard On a man that died for men.
JOHN HAY.
TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL. A GEOLOGICAL ADDRESS..

"A human skull has been found in California, in the pliocene formation. This skull is the remnant, not only of the earliest pioneer of this State, but the oldest known human being.... The skull was found in a shaft one hundred and fifty feet deep, two miles from Angel's, in Calaveras County, by a miner named James Matson, who gave it to Mr. Scribner, a merchant, and he gave it to Dr. Jones, who sent it to the State Geological Survey.... The published volume of the State Survey on the Geology of California states that man existed contemporaneously with the mastodon, but this fossil proves that he was here before the mastodon was known to exist."—Daily Paper.

"Speak, O man, less recent! Fragmentary fossil! Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum Of Volcanic tufa!
"Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium; Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogamia; Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions Of earth's epidermis!
"Eo—Mio—Plio—whatsoe'er the 'cene' was That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,— Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,— Tell us thy strange story!
"Or has the Professor slightly antedated By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted For cold-blooded creatures?
"Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest, When above thy head the stately Sigillaria Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant Carboniferous epoch?
"Tell us of that scene,—the dim and watery woodland, Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect, Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club-mosses, Lycopodiacea—
"When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, While from time to time above thee flew and circled Cheerful Pterodactyls.
"Tell us of thy food,—those half-marine refections, Crinoids on the shell, and Brachipods au naturel,— Cuttle-fish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo Seems a periwinkle.
"Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth's creation,— Solitary fragment of remains organic! Tell the wondrous secrets of thy past existence,— Speak! thou oldest primate!"
Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, Ground the teeth together;
And from that imperfect dental exhibition, Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian, Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs Of expectoration:
"Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted Falling down a shaft, in Calaveras County, But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces Home to old Missouri!"
BRET HARTE.
LITTLE BREECHES. A PIKE COUNTY VIEW. OF SPECIAL PROVIDENCE..
I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On the handful o' things I know. I don't pan out on the prophets And free-will, and that sort o' thing,— But believe in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.
I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along,— No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight,— And I'd learnt him ter chaw terbacker, Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.
The snow come down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started,— I heard one little squall, And hell-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all.
Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for 'em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat,—but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.
And here all hope soured on me Of my fellow-critter's aid,— I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.
————
By this, the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.
We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night. We looked in, and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And THAR sot Little Breeches and chirped, As pert as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter of me."
How did he git thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm. They just scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child, And bringing him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around the Throne.
JOHN HAY.
JIM
Say there! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild? Well,—no offence: Thar ain't no sense In gettin' riled!
Jim was my chum Up on the Bar: That's why I come Down from up thar, Lookin' for Jim. Thank ye, sir! you Ain't of that crew,— Blest if you are!
Money?—Not much: That ain't my kind; I an't no such. Rum?—I don't mind, Seein' it's you.
Well, this yer Jim, Did you know him?— Jess 'bout your size; Same kind of eyes?— Well, that is strange: Why, it's two year Since he come here, Sick, for a change.
Well, here's to us; Eh? The deuce you say! Dead?— That little cuss?
What makes you star,— You over thar? Can't a man drop 's glass in yer shop
But you must rar'? It wouldn't take Derned much to break You and your bar.
Dead! Poor—little—Jim! —Why, there was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben,— No-account men: Then to take him!
Well, thar—Good-bye,— No more, sir,—I— Eh? What's that you say?— Why, dern it!—sho!— No? Yes! By Jo! Sold! Sold! Why you limb, You ornery, Derned old Long-leggèd Jim!
BRET HARTE.
BANTY TIM.

[Remarks of Sergeant Tilmon Joy to the
White Man's Committee of Spunky Point, Illinois.]

I reckon I git your drift, gents— You 'low the boy sha'n't stay; This is a white man's country: You're Dimocrats, you say: And whereas, and seein', and wherefore, The times bein' all out o' jint, The nigger has got to mosey From the limits o' Spunky P'int!
Let's reason the thing a minute; I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat, too, Though I laid my politics out o' the way For to keep till the war was through. But I come back here allowin' To vote as I used to do, Though it gravels me like the devil to train Along o' sich fools as you.
Now dog my cats if I kin see In all the light of the day, What you've got to do with the question Ef Tim shall go or stay. And furder than that I give notice, Ef one of you tetches the boy, He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime Than he'll find in Illanoy.
Why, blame your hearts, jist hear me! You know that ungodly day When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped And torn and tattered we lay. When the rest retreated, I stayed behind, Fur reasons sufficient to me,— With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike, I sprawled on that cursed glacee.
Lord! how the hot sun went for us, And broiled and blistered and burned! How the rebel bullets whizzed round us When a cuss in his death-grip turned! Till along toward dusk I seen a thing I couldn't believe for a spell: That nigger—that Tim—was a-crawlin' to me Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!
The rebels seen him as quick as me, And the bullets buzzed like bees; But he jumped for me, and shouldered me, Though a shot brought him once to his knees; But he staggered up, and packed me off, With a dozen stumbles and falls, Till safe in our lines he drapped us both, His black hide riddled with balls.
So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer, And here stays Banty Tim: He trumped Death's ace for me that day, And I 'm not goin' back on him! You may rezoloot till the cows come home, But ef one of you tetches the boy, He 'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell, Or my name's not Tilmon Joy!
JOHN HAY.
DOW'S FLAT. 1856.
Dow's flat. That's its name. And I reckon that you Are a stranger? The same? Well, I thought it was true, For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first view.
It was called after Dow,— Which the same was an ass; And as to the how Thet the thing kem to pass,— Just 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 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 top of his trouble kem his wife and five kids from the States.
It was rough,—mighty rough; But the boys they stood by, And they brought him the stuff For a house, on the sly; 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 ridikilous way.
One day,—it was June,— And a year ago, jest,— This Dow kem at noon To his work like the rest, 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: For the sun in his eyes, (jest like this, sir!) you see, kinder made the cuss blink.
His two ragged gals In the gulch were at play, And a gownd that was Sal's Kinder flapped on a bay: Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all,— as I've heer'd the folks say.
And—that's a peart hoss Thet you've got—ain't it now? What might be her cost? Eh? Oh!—Well then, Dow— Let's see,—well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow.
For a blow of his pick Sorter caved in the side, And he looked and turned sick, Then he trembled and cried. For you see the dern cuss had struck—"Water?" —beg your parding, young man, there you lied!
It was gold,—in the quartz, And it ran all alike; And I reckon five oughts Was the worth of that strike; And that house with coopilow's his'n,—which the same isn't bad for a Pike.
Thet's why it's Dow's Flat; And the thing of it is That he kinder got that Through sheer contrairiness: For 't was water the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck made him certain to miss.
Thet's so. Thar's your way To the left of yon tree; But—a—look h'yur, say, Won't you come up to tea? No? Well, then the next time you're passin'; and ask after Dow,—and thet's me.
BRET HARTE.