Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 18

That made a square fifty To just one o' we.

They were dressed in their best, but I grieve that that same Was largely made up of our own, to their shame; And my pardner's best s.h.i.+rt and his trousers were hung On a spear, and above him were tauntingly swung; While that beggar, Chey Lee, like a conjurer sat Pullin' out eggs and chickens from Johnson's best hat; And Bates's game rooster was part of their "loot,"

And all of Smith's pigs were skyugled to boot; But the climax was reached and I like to have died When my demijohn, empty, came down the hillside,-- Down the hillside-- What once held the pride Of Robertson County Pitched down the hillside!

Then we axed for a parley. When out of the din To the front comes a-rockin' that heathen, Ah Sin!

"You owe flowty dollee--me washee you camp, You catchee my washee--me catchee no stamp; One dollar hap dozen, me no catchee yet, Now that flowty dollee--no hab?--how can get?

Me catchee you piggee--me sellee for cash, It catchee me licee--you catchee no 'hash;'

Me belly good Sheliff--me lebbee when can, Me allee same halp pin as Melican man!

But Melican man He washee him pan On BOTTOM side hillee And catchee--how can?"

"Are we men?" says Joe Johnson, "and list to this jaw, Without process of warrant or color of law?

Are we men or--a-chew!"--here be gasped in his speech, For a stink-pot had fallen just out of his reach.

"Shall we stand here as idle, and let Asia pour Her barbaric hordes on this civilized sh.o.r.e?

Has the White Man no country? Are we left in the lurch?

And likewise what's gone of the Established Church?

One man to four hundred is great odds, I own, But this 'yer's a White Man--I plays it alone!"

And he sprang up the hillside--to stop him none dare-- Till a yell from the top told a "White Man was there!"

A White Man was there!

We prayed he might spare Those misguided heathens The few clothes they wear.

They fled, and he followed, but no matter where; They fled to escape him,--the "White Man was there,"-- Till we missed first his voice on the pine-wooded slope, And we knew for the heathen henceforth was no hope; And the yells they grew fainter, when Petersen said, "It simply was human to bury his dead."

And then, with slow tread, We crept up, in dread, But found nary mortal there, Living or dead.

But there was his trail, and the way that they came, And yonder, no doubt, he was bagging his game.

When Jones drops his pickaxe, and Thompson says "Shoo!"

And both of 'em points to a cage of bamboo Hanging down from a tree, with a label that swung Conspicuous, with letters in some foreign tongue, Which, when freely translated, the same did appear Was the Chinese for saying, "A White Man is here!"

And as we drew near, In anger and fear, Bound hand and foot, Johnson Looked down with a leer!

In his mouth was an opium pipe--which was why He leered at us so with a drunken-like eye!

They had shaved off his eyebrows, and tacked on a cue, They had painted his face of a coppery hue, And rigged him all up in a heathenish suit, Then softly departed, each man with his "loot."

Yes, every galoot, And Ah Sin, to boot, Had left him there hanging Like ripening fruit.

At a ma.s.s meeting held up at Murphy's next day There were seventeen speakers and each had his say; There were twelve resolutions that instantly pa.s.sed, And each resolution was worse than the last; There were fourteen pet.i.tions, which, granting the same, Will determine what Governor Murphy's shall name; And the man from our district that goes up next year Goes up on one issue--that's patent and clear: "Can the work of a mean, Degraded, unclean Believer in Buddha Be held as a lien?"

TRUTHFUL JAMES TO THE EDITOR

(YREKA, 1873)

Which it is not my style To produce needless pain By statements that rile Or that go 'gin the grain, But here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye has no skelp on his brain!

On that Caucasian head There is no crown of hair; It has gone, it has fled!

And Echo sez "Where?"

And I asks, "Is this Nation a White Man's, and is generally things on the square?"

She was known in the camp As "Nye's other squaw,"

And folks of that stamp Hez no rights in the law, But is treacherous, sinful, and slimy, as Nye might hev well known before.

But she said that she knew Where the Injins was hid, And the statement was true, For it seemed that she did, Since she led William where he was covered by seventeen Modocs, and-- slid!

Then they reached for his hair; But Nye sez, "By the law Of nations, forbear!

I surrenders--no more: And I looks to be treated,--you hear me?--as a pris'ner, a pris'ner of war!"

But Captain Jack rose And he sez, "It's too thin!

Such statements as those It's too late to begin.

There's a MODOC INDICTMENT agin you, O Paleface, and you're goin' in!

"You stole Schonchin's squaw In the year sixty-two; It was in sixty-four That Long Jack you went through, And you burned Nasty Jim's rancheria, and his wives and his papooses too.

"This gun in my hand Was sold me by you 'Gainst the law of the land, And I grieves it is true!"

And he buried his face in his blanket and wept as he hid it from view.

"But you're tried and condemned, And skelping's your doom,"

And he paused and he hemmed-- But why this resume?

He was skelped 'gainst the custom of nations, and cut off like a rose in its bloom.

So I asks without guile, And I trusts not in vain, If this is the style That is going to obtain-- If here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye with no skelp on his brain?

AN IDYL OF THE ROAD

(SIERRAS, 1876)

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

First Tourist Second Tourist Yuba Bill, Driver A Stranger

FIRST TOURIST

Look how the upland plunges into cover, Green where the pines fade sullenly away.

Wonderful those olive depths! and wonderful, moreover--

SECOND TOURIST

The red dust that rises in a suffocating way.

FIRST TOURIST

Small is the soul that cannot soar above it, Cannot but cling to its ever-kindred clay: Better be yon bird, that seems to breathe and love it--

SECOND TOURIST

Doubtless a hawk or some other bird of prey.

Were we, like him, as sure of a dinner That on our stomachs would comfortably stay; Or were the fried ham a shade or two just thinner, That must confront us at closing of the day: Then might you sing like Theocritus or Virgil, Then might we each make a metrical essay; But verse just now--I must protest and urge--ill Fits a digestion by travel led astray.