Part 26 (1/2)

I might still prove to you, Jack of the Tules Shames not our teaching; nay, even might show you, Hard by this spot, his old comrade, who, wounded, Lives on his bounty.

If--ah, you listen!--I see I can trust you; Then, on your word as a gentleman--follow.

Under that sycamore stands the old cabin; There sits his comrade.

Eh!--are you mad? You would try to ARREST him?

You, with a warrant? Oh, well, take the rest of them: Pedro, Bill, Murray, Pat Doolan. Hey!--all of you, Tumble out, d--n it!

There!--that'll do, boys! Stand back! Ease his elbows; Take the gag from his mouth. Good! Now scatter like devils After his posse--four straggling, four drunken-- At the posada.

You--help me off with these togs, and then vamos!

Now, ole Jeff Dobbs!--Sheriff, Scout, and Detective!

You're so derned 'cute! Kinder sick, ain't ye, bluffing Jack of the Tules!

IV. MISCELLANEOUS

A GREYPORT LEGEND

(1797)

They ran through the streets of the seaport town, They peered from the decks of the s.h.i.+ps that lay; The cold sea-fog that came whitening down Was never as cold or white as they.

”Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden!

Run for your shallops, gather your men, Scatter your boats on the lower bay.”

Good cause for fear! In the thick mid-day The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, Filled with the children in happy play, Parted its moorings and drifted clear, Drifted clear beyond reach or call,-- Thirteen children they were in all,-- All adrift in the lower bay!

Said a hard-faced skipper, ”G.o.d help us all!

She will not float till the turning tide!”

Said his wife, ”My darling will hear MY call, Whether in sea or heaven she bide;”

And she lifted a quavering voice and high, Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry, Till they shuddered and wondered at her side.

The fog drove down on each laboring crew, Veiled each from each and the sky and sh.o.r.e: There was not a sound but the breath they drew, And the lap of water and creak of oar; And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone, But not from the lips that had gone before.

They came no more. But they tell the tale That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef, The mackerel fishers shorten sail-- For the signal they know will bring relief; For the voices of children, still at play In a phantom hulk that drifts alway Through channels whose waters never fail.

It is but a foolish s.h.i.+pman's tale, A theme for a poet's idle page; But still, when the mists of Doubt prevail, And we lie becalmed by the sh.o.r.es of Age, We hear from the misty troubled sh.o.r.e The voice of the children gone before, Drawing the soul to its anchorage.

A NEWPORT ROMANCE

They say that she died of a broken heart (I tell the tale as 'twas told to me); But her spirit lives, and her soul is part Of this sad old house by the sea.