     Being asked by an intimate party,—
       Which the same I would term as a friend,—
     Though his health it were vain to call hearty,
       Since the mind to deceit it might lend;
     For his arm it was broken quite recent,
       And there's something gone wrong with his lung,—
     Which is why it is proper and decent
       I should write what he runs off his tongue.

     First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter
       To the end,—and "the end came too soon;"
     That a "slight illness kept him your debtor,"
       (Which for weeks he was wild as a loon);
     That "his spirits are buoyant as yours is;"
       That with you, Miss, he "challenges Fate,"
     (Which the language that invalid uses
       At times it were vain to relate).

     And he says "that the mountains are fairer
       For once being held in your thought;"
     That each rock "holds a wealth that is rarer
       Than ever by gold-seeker sought."
     (Which are words he would put in these pages,
       By a party not given to guile;
     Though the claim not, at date, paying wages,
       Might produce in the sinful a smile.)

     He remembers the ball at the Ferry,
       And the ride, and the gate, and the vow,
     And the rose that you gave him,—that very
       Same rose he is "treasuring now."
     (Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk, Miss,
       And insists on his legs being free
     And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,
       Is frequent and painful and free.)

     He hopes you are wearing no willows,
       But are happy and gay all the while;
     That he knows—(which this dodging of pillows
       Imparts but small ease to the style,
     And the same you will pardon)—he knows, Miss,
       That, though parted by many a mile,
     Yet, were HE lying under the snows, Miss,
       They'd melt into tears at your smile.

     And "you'll still think of him in your pleasures,
       In your brief twilight dreams of the past;
     In this green laurel spray that he treasures,—
       It was plucked where your parting was last;
     In this specimen,—but a small trifle,—
       It will do for a pin for your shawl."
     (Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle,
       Was his last week's "clean up,"—and HIS ALL.)

     He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss,
       Were it not that I scorn to deny
     That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss,
       In view that his fever was high;
     But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive.
       And now, my respects, Miss, to you;
     Which my language, although comprehensive,
       Might seem to be freedom, is true.

     For I have a small favor to ask you,
       As concerns a bull-pup, and the same,—
     If the duty would not overtask you,—
       You would please to procure for me, GAME;
     And send per express to the Flat, Miss,—
       For they say York is famed for the breed,
     Which, though words of deceit may be that, Miss,
       I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.

     P.S.—Which this same interfering
       Into other folks' way I despise;
     Yet if it so be I was hearing
       That it's just empty pockets as lies
     Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers
       That, having no family claims,
     Here's my pile, which it's six hundred dollars,
       As is YOURS, with respects,

TRUTHFUL JAMES.

"THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS"

(MUD FLAT, 1860)

     So you're back from your travels, old fellow,
       And you left but a twelvemonth ago;
     You've hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon,
       Eugenie, and kissed the Pope's toe.
     By Jove, it is perfectly stunning,
       Astounding,—and all that, you know;
     Yes, things are about as you left them
       In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago.

     The boys!—they're all right,—Oh! Dick Ashley,
       He's buried somewhere in the snow;
     He was lost on the Summit last winter,
       And Bob has a hard row to hoe.
     You know that he's got the consumption?
       You didn't! Well, come, that's a go;
     I certainly wrote you at Baden,—
       Dear me! that was six months ago.

     I got all your outlandish letters,
       All stamped by some foreign P. O.
     I handed myself to Miss Mary
       That sketch of a famous chateau.
     Tom Saunders is living at 'Frisco,—
       They say that he cuts quite a show.
     You didn't meet Euchre-deck Billy
       Anywhere on your road to Cairo?

     So you thought of the rusty old cabin,
       The pines, and the valley below,
     And heard the North Fork of the Yuba
       As you stood on the banks of the Po?
     'Twas just like your romance, old fellow;
       But now there is standing a row
     Of stores on the site of the cabin
       That you lived in a twelvemonth ago.

     But it's jolly to see you, old fellow,—
       To think it's a twelvemonth ago!
     And you have seen Louis Napoleon,
       And look like a Johnny Crapaud.
     Come in. You will surely see Mary,—
       You know we are married. What, no?
     Oh, ay! I forgot there was something
       Between you a twelvemonth ago.

FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES

(NYE'S FORD, STANISLAUS, 1870)

     Do I sleep? do I dream?
     Do I wonder and doubt?
     Are things what they seem?
     Or is visions about?
     Is our civilization a failure?
     Or is the Caucasian played out?

     Which expressions are strong;
     Yet would feebly imply
     Some account of a wrong—
     Not to call it a lie—
     As was worked off on William, my pardner,
     And the same being W. Nye.

     He came down to the Ford
     On the very same day
     Of that lottery drawed
     By those sharps at the Bay;
     And he says to me, "Truthful, how goes it?"
     I replied, "It is far, far from gay;

     "For the camp has gone wild
     On this lottery game,
     And has even beguiled
     'Injin Dick' by the same."
     Then said Nye to me, "Injins is pizen:
     But what is his number, eh, James?"

     I replied, "7, 2,
     9, 8, 4, is his hand;"
     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 Dick 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,
     Was what he, no doubt,
     Thought the number and 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?

AFTER THE ACCIDENT

(MOUTH OF THE SHAFT)

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

     Penrhyn, sir, Joe,—
        Caernarvonshire.
     Six months ago
        Since we came here—
     Eh?—Ah, you know!

     Well, I am quiet
        And still,
     But I must stand here,
        And will!
     Please, I'll be strong,
        If you'll just let me wait
        Inside o' that gate
     Till the news comes along.

        "Negligence!"—
     That was the cause!—
        Butchery!
     Are there no laws,—
        Laws to protect such as we?

     Well, then!
        I won't raise my voice.
     There, men!
        I won't make no noise,
     Only you just let me be.

     Four, only four—did he say—
     Saved! and the other ones?—Eh?
        Why do they call?
        Why are they all
     Looking and coming this way?

     What's that?—a message?
        I'll take it.
     I know his wife, sir,
        I'll break it.
        "Foreman!"
        Ay, ay!
        "Out by and by,—
        Just saved his life.
        Say to his wife
        Soon he'll be free."
     Will I?—God bless you!
        It's me!

THE GHOST THAT JIM SAW

     Why, as to that, said the engineer,
     Ghosts ain't things we are apt to fear;
     Spirits don't fool with levers much,
     And throttle-valves don't take to such;
         And as for Jim,
         What happened to him
     Was one half fact, and t'other half whim!

     Running one night on the line, he saw
     A house—as plain as the moral law—
     Just by the moonlit bank, and thence
     Came a drunken man with no more sense
         Than to drop on the rail
         Flat as a flail,
     As Jim drove by with the midnight mail.

     Down went the patents—steam reversed.
     Too late! for there came a "thud." Jim cursed
     As the fireman, there in the cab with him,
     Kinder stared in the face of Jim,
         And says, "What now?"
         Says Jim, "What now!
     I've just run over a man,—that's how!"

     The fireman stared at Jim. They ran
     Back, but they never found house nor man,—
     Nary a shadow within a mile.
     Jim turned pale, but he tried to smile,
         Then on he tore
         Ten mile or more,
     In quicker time than he'd made afore.

     Would you believe it! the very next night
     Up rose that house in the moonlight white,
     Out comes the chap and drops as before,
     Down goes the brake and the rest encore;
         And so, in fact,
         Each night that act
     Occurred, till folks swore Jim was cracked.

     Humph! let me see; it's a year now, 'most,
     That I met Jim, East, and says, "How's your ghost?"
     "Gone," says Jim; "and more, it's plain
     That ghost don't trouble me again.
         I thought I shook
         That ghost when I took
     A place on an Eastern line,—but look!

     "What should I meet, the first trip out,
     But the very house we talked about,
     And the selfsame man! 'Well,' says I, 'I guess
     It's time to stop this 'yer foolishness.'
         So I crammed on steam,
         When there came a scream
     From my fireman, that jest broke my dream:

     "'You've killed somebody!' Says I, 'Not much!
     I've been thar often, and thar ain't no such,
     And now I'll prove it!' Back we ran,
     And—darn my skin!—but thar WAS a man
         On the rail, dead,
         Smashed in the head!—
     Now I call that meanness!" That's all Jim said.

"SEVENTY-NINE"

(MR. INTERVIEWER INTERVIEWED)

     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!
     Any complaints to make? Lots of 'em—one of 'em's YOU.

     You! who are YOU, anyhow, goin' round in that sneakin' way?
     Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say?
     Look at it; don't it look pooty? Oh, grin, and be d—d to you, do!
     But if I had you this side o' that gratin,' I'd just make it lively
        for you.

     How did I get in here? Well what 'ud you give to know?
     'Twasn't by sneakin' round where I hadn't no call to go;
     'Twasn't by hangin' round a-spyin' unfortnet men.
     Grin! but I'll stop your jaw if ever you do that agen.

     Why don't you say suthin, blast you? Speak your mind if you dare.
     Ain't I a bad lot, sonny? Say it, and call it square.
     Hain't got no tongue, hey, hev ye? Oh, guard! here's a little swell
     A cussin' and swearin' and yellin', and bribin' me not to tell.

     There! I thought that 'ud fetch ye! And you want to know my name?
     "Seventy-nine" they call me, but that is their little game;
     For I'm werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can understand,
     And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in the land.

     For 'twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like me;
     And the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they couldn't agree;
     And I sed to the judge, sez I,—Oh, grin! it's all right, my son!
     But you're a werry lively young pup, and you ain't to be played upon!

     Wot's that you got?—tobacco? I'm cussed but I thought 'twas a tract.
     Thank ye! A chap t'other day—now, lookee, this is a fact—
     Slings me a tract on the evils o' keepin' bad company,
     As if all the saints was howlin' to stay here along o' we.

     No, I hain't no complaints. Stop, yes; do you see that chap,—
     Him standin' over there, a-hidin' his eyes in his cap?
     Well, that man's stumick is weak, and he can't stand the pris'n fare;
     For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar it ain't nowhere.

     Perhaps it's his bringin' up; but he's sickenin' day by day,
     And he doesn't take no food, and I'm seein' him waste away.
     And it isn't the thing to see; for, whatever he's been and done,
     Starvation isn't the plan as he's to be saved upon.

     For he cannot rough it like me; and he hasn't the stamps, I guess,
     To buy him his extry grub outside o' the pris'n mess.
     And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I've been sorter free,
     Would—thank you! But, say! look here! Oh, blast it! don't give it
        to ME!

     Don't you give it to me; now, don't ye, don't ye, DON'T!
     You think it's a put-up job; so I'll thank ye, sir, if you won't.
     But hand him the stamps yourself: why, he isn't even my pal;
     And, if it's a comfort to you, why, I don't intend that he shall.

THE STAGE-DRIVER'S STORY

     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,
     We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco descending.

     "Danger! Sir, I believe you,—indeed, I may say, on that subject,
     You your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a wager.
     I have seen danger? Oh, no! not me, sir, indeed, I assure you:
     'Twas only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in yon wagon.

     "It was the Geiger Grade, a mile and a half from the summit:
     Black as your hat was the night, and never a star in the heavens.
     Thundering down the grade, the gravel and stones we sent flying
     Over the precipice side,—a thousand feet plumb to the bottom.

     "Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling and creaking,
     Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank of the canyon;
     Then, looking up the road, I saw, in the distance behind me,
     The off hind wheel of the coach, just loosed from its axle, and
        following.

     "One glance alone I gave, then gathered together my ribbons,
     Shouted, and flung them, outspread, on the straining necks of my
        cattle;
     Screamed at the top of my voice, and lashed the air in my frenzy,
     While down the Geiger Grade, on THREE wheels, the vehicle thundered.

     "Speed was our only chance, when again came the ominous rattle:
     Crack, and another wheel slipped away, and was lost in the darkness.
     TWO only now were left; yet such was our fearful momentum,
     Upright, erect, and sustained on TWO wheels, the vehicle thundered.

     "As some huge boulder, unloosed from its rocky shelf on the mountain,
     Drives before it the hare and the timorous squirrel, far leaping,
     So down the Geiger Grade rushed the Pioneer coach, and before it
     Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance of the danger
        impending.

     "But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to the level,
     Slipped from its axle a wheel; so that, to be plain in my statement,
     A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the distance may be,
     We traveled upon ONE wheel, until we drove up to the station.

     "Then, sir, we sank in a heap; but, picking myself from the ruins,
     I heard a noise up the grade; and looking, I saw in the distance
     The three wheels following still, like moons on the horizon whirling,
     Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at the side of the
        station.

     "This is my story, sir; a trifle, indeed, I assure you.
     Much more, perchance, might be said—but I hold him of all men most
        lightly
     Who swerves from the truth in his tale. No, thank you— Well, since
     you ARE pressing,
     Perhaps I don't care if I do: you may give me the same, Jim,—no
        sugar."

A QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE

REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES

     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,
     And we've come home free and merry from the peaceful cemetery,
        leavin' Cutter there with Sutter—that mebbee just a stutter
     On the part of Mr. Cutter caused the loss we deeply mourn.

     Some bashful hesitation, just like spellin' punctooation—might have
        worked an aggravation on to Sutter's mournful mind,
     For the witnesses all vary ez to wot was said and nary a galoot will
        toot his horn except the way he is inclined.

     But they all allow that Sutter had begun a kind of mutter, when
        uprose Mr. Cutter with a sickening kind of ease,
     And proceeded then to wade in to the subject then prevadin': "Is
        Profanity degradin'?" in words like unto these:

     "Onlike the previous speaker, Mr. Sutter of Yreka, he was but a
        humble seeker—and not like him—a cuss"—
     It was here that Mr. Sutter softly reached for Mr. Cutter, when the
        latter with a stutter said: "ac-customed to discuss."

     Then Sutter he rose grimly, and sorter smilin' dimly bowed onto the
        Chairman primly—(just like Cutter ez could be!)
     Drawled "he guessed he must fall—back—as—Mr. Cutter owned the
        pack—as—he just had played the—Jack—as—" (here Cutter's gun
        went crack! as Mr. Sutter gasped and ended) "every man can see!"

     But William Henry Pryor—just in range of Sutter's fire—here
        evinced a wild desire to do somebody harm,
     And in the general scrimmage no one thought if Sutter's "image" was
        a misplaced punctooation—like the hole in Pryor's arm.

     For we all waltzed in together, never carin' to ask whether it was
        Sutter or was Cutter we woz tryin' to abate.
     But we couldn't help perceivin', when we took to inkstand heavin',
        that the process was relievin' to the sharpness of debate,

     So we've come home free and merry from the peaceful cemetery, and I
        make no commentary on these simple childish games;
     Things is various and human—and the man ain't born of woman who is
        free to intermeddle with his pal's intents and aims.

THE THOUGHT-READER OF ANGELS

REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES

     We hev tumbled ez dust
       Or ez worms of the yearth;
     Wot we looked for hez bust!
       We are objects of mirth!
     They have played us—old Pards of the river!—they hev played us for
        all we was worth!

     Was it euchre or draw
       Cut us off in our bloom?
     Was it faro, whose law
       Is uncertain ez doom?
     Or an innocent "Jack pot" that—opened—was to us ez the jaws of the
        tomb?

     It was nary! It kem
       With some sharps from the States.
     Ez folks sez, "All things kem
       To the fellers ez waits;"
     And we'd waited six months for that suthin'—had me and Bill Nye—in
        such straits!

     And it kem. It was small;
       It was dream-like and weak;
     It wore store clothes—that's all
       That we knew, so to speak;
     But it called itself "Billson, Thought-Reader"—which ain't half a
        name for its cheek!

     He could read wot you thought,
       And he knew wot you did;
     He could find things untaught,
       No matter whar hid;
     And he went to it, blindfold and smiling, being led by the hand like
        a kid!

     Then I glanced at Bill Nye,
       And I sez, without pride,
     "You'll excuse US. We've nigh
       On to nothin' to hide;
     But if some gent will lend us a twenty, we'll hide it whar folks
        shall decide."

     It was Billson's own self
       Who forked over the gold,
     With a smile. "Thar's the pelf,"
       He remarked. "I make bold
     To advance it, and go twenty better that I'll find it without being
        told."

     Then I passed it to Nye,
       Who repassed it to me.
     And we bandaged each eye
       Of that Billson—ez we
     Softly dropped that coin in his coat pocket, ez the hull crowd
        around us could see.

     That was all. He'd one hand
       Locked in mine. Then he groped.
     We could not understand
       Why that minit Nye sloped,
     For we knew we'd the dead thing on Billson—even more than we
        dreamed of or hoped.

     For he stood thar in doubt
       With his hand to his head;
     Then he turned, and lit out
       Through the door where Nye fled,
     Draggin' me and the rest of us arter, while we larfed till we
        thought we was dead,

     Till he overtook Nye
       And went through him. Words fail
     For what follers! Kin I
       Paint our agonized wail
     Ez he drew from Nye's pocket that twenty wot we sworn was in his own
        coat-tail!

     And it WAS! But, when found,
       It proved bogus and brass!
     And the question goes round
       How the thing kem to pass?
     Or, if PASSED, woz it passed thar by William; and I listens, and
        echoes "Alas!

     "For the days when the skill
       Of the keerds was no blind,
     When no effort of will
       Could beat four of a kind,
     When the thing wot you held in your hand, Pard, was worth more than
        the thing in your mind."