What's that you say?—
Why, dern it !—sho !—
No! Yes! By Jo!
Sold!
Sold! Why, you limb!
You ornery,
Dern'd old
Long-legged Jim!
COWARD, of heroic size,
In whose lazy muscles lies
Strength we fear and yet despise !
Savage,-whose relentless tusks
Are content with acorn husks!
Robber,-whose exploits ne'er soar'd
O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard!
Whisker'd chin, and feeble nose,—
Claws of steel on baby toes,—
Here, in solitude and shade,
Shambling, shuffling, plantigrade,
Be thy courses undismay'd.
Here, where Nature makes thy bed,
Let thy rude, half-human tread
Point to hidden Indian springs,
Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses,
Hover'd o'er by timid wings,
Where the wood-duck lightly passes,
Where the wild-bee holds her sweets,-
Epicurean retreats,
Fit for thee, and better than
Fearful spoils of dangerous man!
In thy fat-jowl'd deviltry
Friar Tuck shall live in thee;
Thou mayst levy tithe and dole;
Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer,
From the pilgrim taking toll;
Match thy cunning with his fear;
Eat, and drink, and have thy fill;
Yet remain an outlaw still.
JOHN HAY.
Born at Salem, Indiana, 1839
JIM BLUDSO
(of the Prairie Belle).
WALL, no! I can't tell whar he lives,
Becase he don't live, you see;
Leastways, he's got out of the habit
Whar have you been for the last three year
That you haven't heard folks tell
How Jimmy Bludso pass'd in his checks
The night of the Prairie Belle?
He weren't no saint,-them engineers
Is all pretty much alike,-
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill
And another one here, in Pike;
A keerless man in his talk was Jim,
And an awkward hand in a row,
But he never funk'd, and he never lied,—
I reckon he never know'd how.
And this was all the religion he had,—
To treat his engine well,
Never be pass'd on the river,
To mind the pilot's bell,
And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire-
A thousand times he swore-
He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last soul got ashore.
All boats has their day on the Mississip,
And her day come at last,-
The Movaster was a better boat,
But the Belle she wouldn't be pass'd:
And so she come tearin' along that night—
The oldest craft on the line-
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,
And her furnace cramm'd, rosin and pine.
The fire burst out as she clared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,
And quick as a flash she turn'd, and made
For that willer-bank on the right:
There was runnin' and cussin', but Jim yell'd out, Over all the infernal roar
"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot's ashore."
Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat
Jim Bludso's voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And know'd he would keep his word:
And, sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell,—
And Bludso's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He weren't no saint,-but at jedgment
I'd run my chance with Jim,
'Longside of some pious gentlemen
That wouldn't shook hands with him :
He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,-
And went for it thar and then;
And Christ ain't going to be too hard
On a man that died for men.
I DON'T go much on religion,
I never ain't had no show;
But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir!
On the handful o' things I know.
I don't pan out on the prophets
And free-will, and that sort of thing,-
But I b'lieve in God and the angels,
Ever sence one night last spring.
I come into town with some turnips,
And my little Gabe come along,—
No four-year-old in the county
Could beat him for pretty and strong,Peart and chipper and sassy,
Always ready to swear and fight,— And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker Just to keep his milk-teeth white.
The snow come down like a blanket
As I pass'd by Taggart's store;
I went in for a jug of molasses
And left the team at the door.
They scared at something and started,—
I heard one little squall,
And hell-to-split over the prairie
Went team, Little Breeches, and all.
Hell-to-split over the prairie!
I was almost froze with skeer;
But we rousted up some torches,
And sarch'd for 'em far and near.
At last we struck horses and waggon,
Snow'd under a soft white mound,
Upsot, dead beat,-but of little Gabe
No hide nor hair was found.
And here all hope sour'd on me,
Of my fellow-critters' aid,-
I jest flopp'd down on my marrow-bones,
Crotch-deep in the snow, and pray'd.
By this the torches was play'd out,
And me and Isrul Parr
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
That he said was somewhar thar.
We found it at last, and a little shed
Where they shut up the lambs at night.
We look'd in and seen them huddled thar,
So warm and sleepy and white;
And THAR Sot Little Breeches and chirp'd,
As peart as ever you see,
I want a chaw of terbacker,
And that's what's the matter of me."
How did he git thar? Angels.
He could never have walk'd in that storm.
They jest scoop'd down and toted him
To whar it was safe and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
And bringing him to his own,
Is a dern'd sight better business
Than loafing around The Throne.
A SENTINEL angel sitting high in glory
Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory:
"Have mercy, mighty angel! hear my story!—
“I loved,—and, blind with passionate love, I fell. Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell. For God is just, and death for sin is well.
"I do not rage against His high decree,
Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be !
But for
my love on earth who mourns for me.
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