Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 15

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!