Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 20

We checked our pace, the red road sharply rounding; We heard the troubled flow Of the dark olive depths of pines resounding A thousand feet below.

Above the tumult of the canyon lifted, The gray hawk breathless hung, Or on the hill a winged shadow drifted Where furze and thorn-bush clung;

Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed With many a seam and scar; Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed,-- A mole-hill seen so far.

We looked in silence down across the distant Unfathomable reach: A silence broken by the guide's consistent And realistic speech.

"Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters For telling him he lied; Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos Across the Long Divide.

"We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden, And 'cross the ford below, And up this canyon (Peters' brother leadin'), And me and Clark and Joe.

"He fou't us game: somehow I disremember Jest how the thing kem round; Some say 'twas wadding, some a scattered ember From fires on the ground.

"But in one minute all the hill below him Was just one sheet of flame; Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him, And,--well, the dog was game!

"He made no sign: the fires of h.e.l.l were round him, The pit of h.e.l.l below.

We sat and waited, but we never found him; And then we turned to go.

"And then--you see that rock that's grown so bristly With chapparal and tan-- Suthin crep' out: it might hev been a grizzly It might hev been a man;

"Suthin that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and shouted In smoke and dust and flame; Suthin that sprang into the depths about it, Grizzly or man,--but game!

"That's all! Well, yes, it does look rather risky, And kinder makes one queer And dizzy looking down. A drop of whiskey Ain't a bad thing right here!"

HER LETTER

I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe even YOU would admire,-- It cost a cool thousand in France; I'm be-diamonded out of all reason, My hair is done up in a cue: In short, sir, "the belle of the season"

Is wasting an hour upon you.

A dozen engagements I've broken; I left in the midst of a set; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits--on the stairs--for me yet.

They say he'll be rich,--when he grows up,-- And then he adores me indeed; And you, sir, are turning your nose up, Three thousand miles off as you read.

"And how do I like my position?"

"And what do I think of New York?"

"And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?"

"And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?"

"And aren't they a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"

Well, yes,--if you saw us out driving Each day in the Park, four-in-hand, If you saw poor dear mamma contriving To look supernaturally grand,-- If you saw papa's picture, as taken By Brady, and tinted at that, You'd never suspect he sold bacon And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting In the glare of the grand chandelier,-- In the bustle and glitter befitting The "finest soiree of the year,"-- In the mists of a gaze de Chambery, And the hum of the smallest of talk,-- Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry,"

And the dance that we had on "The Fork;"

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster Of flags festooned over the wall; Of the candles that shed their soft l.u.s.tre And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis; And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee;

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow; Of that ride--that to me was the rarest; Of--the something you said at the gate.

Ah! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress To "the best-paying lead in the State."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny To think, as I stood in the glare Of fas.h.i.+on and beauty and money, That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!

(Mamma says my taste still is low), Instead of my triumphs reciting, I'm spooning on Joseph,--heigh-ho!

And I'm to be "finished" by travel,-- Whatever's the meaning of that.

Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good-night!--here's the end of my paper; Good-night!--if the longitude please,-- For maybe, while wasting my taper, YOUR sun's climbing over the trees.

But know, if you haven't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, And you've struck it,--on Poverty Flat.

HIS ANSWER TO "HER LETTER"

(REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES)

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"