East and West: Poems Part 3

When he started, and drew Out a list, which he scanned; Then he softly went for his revolver With language I cannot command.

Then I said, "William Nye!"

But he turned upon me, And the look in his eye Was quite painful to see; And he says, "You mistake: this poor Injin I protects from such sharps as you be!"

I was shocked and withdrew; But I grieve to relate, When he next met my view Injin d.i.c.k was his mate, And the two around town was a-lying In a frightfully dissolute state.

Which the war-dance they had Round a tree at the Bend Was a sight that was sad; And it seemed that the end Would not justify the proceedings, As I quiet remarked to a friend.

For that Injin he fled The next day to his band; And we found William spread Very loose on the strand, With a peaceful-like smile on his features, And a dollar greenback in his hand;

Which, the same when rolled out, We observed with surprise, That that Injin, no doubt, Had believed was the prize,-- Them figures in red in the corner, Which the number of notes specifies.

Was it guile, or a dream?

Is it Nye that I doubt?

Are things what they seem?

Or is visions about?

Is our civilization a failure?

Or is the Caucasian played out?

The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin.

Of all the fountains that poets sing,-- Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring; Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth; Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth; In short, of all the springs of Time That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, That ever were tasted, felt, or seen,-- There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin.

_Anno Domini_ Eighteen-Seven, Father Dominguez (now in heaven,-- _Obiit_, Eighteen twenty-seven) Found the spring, and found it, too, By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe; For his beast--a descendant of Balaam's a.s.s-- Stopped on the instant, and would not pa.s.s.

The Padre thought the omen good, And bent his lips to the trickling flood; Then--as the chronicles declare, On the honest faith of a true believer-- His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare, Filled like a withered russet-pear In the vacuum of a gla.s.s receiver, And the snows that seventy winters bring Melted away in that magic spring.

Such, at least, was the wondrous news The Padre brought into Santa Cruz.

The Church, of course, had its own views Of who were worthiest to use The magic spring; but the prior claim Fell to the aged, sick, and lame.

Far and wide the people came: Some from the healthful Aptos creek Hastened to bring their helpless sick; Even the fishers of rude Soquel Suddenly found they were far from well; The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo Said, in fact, they had never been so: And all were-ailing,--strange to say,-- From Pescadero to Monterey.

Over the mountain they poured in With leathern bottles, and bags of skin; Through the canons a motley throng Trotted, hobbled, and limped along.

The fathers gazed at the moving scene With pious joy and with souls serene; And then--a result perhaps foreseen-- They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin.

Not in the eyes of Faith alone The good effects of the waters shone; But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, Of rough vacquero and muleteer; Angular forms were rounded out, Limbs grew supple, and waists grew stout; And as for the girls,--for miles about They had no equal! To this day, From Pescadero to Monterey, You'll still find eyes in which are seen The liquid graces of San Joaquin.

There is a limit to human bliss, And the Mission of San Joaquin had this; None went abroad to roam or stay, But they fell sick in the queerest way,-- A singular _maladie du pays_, With gastric symptoms: so they spent Their days in a sensuous content; Caring little for things unseen Beyond their bowers of living green,-- Beyond the mountains that lay between The world and the Mission of San Joaquin.

Winter pa.s.sed, and the summer came: The trunks of _madrono_ all aflame, Here and there through the underwood Like pillars of fire starkly stood.

All of the breezy solitude Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay And resinous odors mixed and blended, And dim and ghost-like far away The smoke of the burning woods ascended.

Then of a sudden the mountains swam, The rivers piled their floods in a dam.

The ridge above Los Gatos creek Arched its spine in a feline fas.h.i.+on; The forests waltzed till they grew sick, And Nature shook in a speechless pa.s.sion; And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen, The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin Vanished, and never more was seen!

Two days pa.s.sed: the Mission folk Out of their rosy dream awoke.

Some of them looked a trifle white; But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright.

Three days: there was sore distress, Headache, nausea, giddiness.

Four days: faintings, tenderness Of the mouth and fauces; and in less Than one week,--here the story closes; We won't continue the prognosis,-- Enough that now no trace is seen Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin.

Moral.

You see the point? Don't be too quick To break bad habits: better stick, Like the Mission folk, to your _a.r.s.enic_.

On a Cone of the Big Trees.

_Sequoia Gigantea_.

Brown foundling of the Western wood, Babe of primeval wildernesses!

Long on my table thou hast stood Encounters strange and rude caresses; Perchance contented with thy lot, Surroundings new and curious faces, As though ten centuries were not Imprisoned in thy s.h.i.+ning cases!

Thou bring'st me back the halcyon days Of grateful rest; the week of leisure, The journey lapped in autumn haze, The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure, The morning ride, the noonday halt, The blazing slopes, the red dust rising, And then--the dim, brown, columned vault, With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing.

Once more I see the rocking masts That sc.r.a.pe the sky, their only tenant The jay-bird that in frolic casts From some high yard his broad blue pennant.

I see the Indian files that keep Their places in the dusty heather, Their red trunks standing ankle deep In moccasins of rusty leather.

I see all this, and marvel much That thou, sweet woodland waif, art able To keep the company of such As throng thy friend's--the poet's--table: The latest sp.a.w.n the press hath cast,-- The "modern Pope's," "the later Byron's,"-- Why e'en the best may not outlast Thy poor relation,--_Sempervirens_.

Thy sire saw the light that shone On Mohammed's uplifted crescent, On many a royal gilded throne And deed forgotten in the present; He saw the age of sacred trees And Druid groves and mystic larches; And saw from forest domes like these The builder bring his Gothic arches.

And must thou, foundling, still forego Thy heritage and high ambition, To lie full lowly and full low, Adjusted to thy new condition?

Not hidden in the drifted snows, But under ink-drops idly spattered, And leaves ephemeral as those That on thy woodland tomb were scattered.

Yet lie thou there, O friend! and speak The moral of thy simple story: Though life is all that thou dost seek, And age alone thy crown of glory,-- Not thine the only germs that fail The purpose of their high creation, If their poor tenements avail For worldly show and ostentation.

A Sanitary Message.

Last night, above the whistling wind, I heard the welcome rain,-- A fusillade upon the roof, A tattoo on the pane: The key-hole piped; the chimney-top A warlike trumpet blew; Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife, A softer voice stole through.

"Give thanks, O brothers!" said the voice, "That He who sent the rains Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew That drips from patriot veins: I've seen the gra.s.s on Eastern graves In brighter verdure rise; But, oh! the rain that gave it life Sprang first from human eyes.

"I come to wash away no stain Upon your wasted lea; I raise no banners, save the ones The forest wave to me: Upon the mountain side, where Spring Her farthest picket sets, My reveille awakes a host Of gra.s.sy bayonets.

"I visit every humble roof; I mingle with the low: Only upon the highest peaks My blessings fall in snow; Until, in tricklings of the stream And drainings of the lea, My unspent bounty comes at last To mingle with the sea."