Part 20 (1/2)

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.”