Part 16 (1/2)

When and how she stampeded, I didn't wait for to see, For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she; Running first this way and that way, like a hound that is off the scent, For there warn't no track in the darkness to tell me the way she went.

I've had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this spot,-- Lost on the Plains in '50, drownded almost and shot; But out on this alkali desert, a-hunting a crazy wife, Was ra'ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life.

”Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!” I called, and I held my breath, And ”Cicely!” came from the canyon,--and all was as still as death.

And ”Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!” came from the rocks below, And jest but a whisper of ”Cicely!” down from them peaks of snow.

I ain't what you call religious,--but I jest looked up to the sky, And--this 'yer's to what I'm coming, and maybe ye think I lie: But up away to the east'ard, yaller and big and far, I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of star.

Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me: Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never see: Big and yaller and dancing,--I never saw such a star, And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went for it then and thar.

Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead, Keeping the star afore me, I went wherever it led.

It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and nigh, Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby's cry.

Listen! thar's the same music; but her lungs they are stronger now Than the day I packed her and her mother,--I'm derned if I jest know how.

But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o' the whole thing is That Cis never knew what happened from that very night to this!

But Cicely says you're a poet, and maybe you might, some day, Jest sling her a rhyme 'bout a baby that was born in a curious way, And see what she says; and, old fellow, when you speak of the star, don't tell As how 'twas the doctor's lantern,--for maybe 'twon't sound so well.

PENELOPE

(SIMPSON'S BAR, 1858)

So you've kem 'yer agen, And one answer won't do?

Well, of all the derned men That I've struck, it is you.

O Sal! 'yer's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavortin' round 'yer in the dew.

Kem in, ef you WILL.

Thar,--quit! Take a cheer.

Not that; you can't fill Them theer cus.h.i.+ngs this year,-- For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and they don't make such men about 'yer.

He was tall, was my Jack, And as strong as a tree.

Thar's his gun on the rack,-- Jest you heft it, and see.

And YOU come a courtin' his widder! Lord! where can that critter, Sal, be!

You'd fill my Jack's place?

And a man of your size,-- With no baird to his face, Nor a snap to his eyes, And nary--Sho! thar! I was foolin',--I was, Joe, for sartain,--don't rise.

Sit down. Law! why, sho!

I'm as weak as a gal.