Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 15

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Would ye b'lieve it? That night, that hoss, that 'ar filly, Chiquita, Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and dripping: Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, Just as she swam the Fork,--that hoss, that 'ar filly, Chiquita.

That's what I call a hoss! and-- What did you say?-- Oh, the nevey?

Drownded, I reckon,--leastways, he never kem beck to deny it.

Ye see the derned fool had no seat, ye couldn't have made him a rider; And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses--well, hosses is hosses!

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 a.s.s,-- And as to the how Thet the thing kem to pa.s.s,-- Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here in the gra.s.s.

You see this 'yer Dow Hed the worst kind of luck; He slipped up somehow On each thing thet he struck.

Why, ef he'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing'd get up and buck.

He mined on the bar Till he couldn't pay rates; He was smashed by a car When he tunneled with Bates; And right on the 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 was.h.i.+ng, 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 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 the 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 'twas 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 pa.s.sin'; and ask after Dow,-- and thet's ME.

IN THE TUNNEL

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

Look 'ee here, stranger, Whar HEV you been?

Here in this tunnel He was my pardner, That same Tom Flynn,-- Working together, In wind and weather, Day out and in.

Didn't know Flynn!

Well, that IS queer; Why, it's a sin To think of Tom Flynn,-- Tom with his cheer, Tom without fear,-- Stranger, look 'yar!

Thar in the drift, Back to the wall, He held the timbers Ready to fall; Then in the darkness I heard him call: "Run for your life, Jake!

Run for your wife's sake!

Don't wait for me."

And that was all Heard in the din, Heard of Tom Flynn,-- Flynn of Virginia.

That's all about Flynn of Virginia.

That lets me out.

Here in the damp,-- Out of the sun,-- That 'ar derned lamp Makes my eyes run.

Well, there,--I'm done!

But, sir, when you'll Hear the next fool Asking of Flynn,-- Flynn of Virginia,-- Just you chip in, Say you knew Flynn; Say that you've been 'yar.

"CICELY"

(ALKALI STATION)

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, But I takes mine "straight without sugar," and that's what's the matter with me.

Poetry!--just look round you,--alkali, rock, and sage; Sage-brush, rock, and alkali; ain't it a pretty page!

Sun in the east at mornin', sun in the west at night, And the shadow of this 'yer station the on'y thing moves in sight.

Poetry!--Well now--Polly! Polly, run to your mam; Run right away, my pooty! By-by! Ain't she a lamb?

Poetry!--that reminds me o' suthin' right in that suit: Jest shet that door thar, will yer?--for Cicely's ears is cute.

Ye noticed Polly,--the baby? A month afore she was born, Cicely--my old woman--was moody-like and forlorn; Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and trees; Family man yourself, sir? Well, you know what a woman be's.

Narvous she was, and restless,--said that she "couldn't stay."

Stay!--and the nearest woman seventeen miles away.

But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be on hand, And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o' land.

One night,--the tenth of October,--I woke with a chill and a fright, For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn't in sight, But a note was pinned on the blanket, which it said that she "couldn't stay,"

But had gone to visit her neighbor,--seventeen miles away!

Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 15

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