Part 2 (2/2)

Then Miss Mary Ellen Jones (her that come from Pile-o'-Bones) Lived in nothin' but a mud-shack all her life, She got puttin' on some airs, an' her nose jes' said, ”Who cares?”

And th' District Member picked HER f'r a wife.

She did cut a silly caper: had her envelopes an' paper Painted with a little brand in blue sot up on top; When th' Flat laugh'd, I'll be blest! she said, ”It's Poppa's crest”!

Well! Providence, that year, hailed out their crop.

But Mary Ellen's fall come when they gave th' weddin'-ball; Invited all th' stylish folks--gave us th' gla.s.sy eye; But says Pa, ”Th' next election we'll bust th' d.a.m.n connection, F'r th' District Member goes out on th' fly!”

He he'er'd that. He wanted votes. So them stylish printed notes Come trailin' in t' us who'd been rejected; But Mary Ellen said (underlined in ink bright red), ”PLEASE UNDERSTAND NO CHILDREN IS EXPECTED”!

That joke went far an' wide, us folks laugh'd ontil we cried; But Retribution it was on th' District Member's s.h.i.+ns, F'r that sa.s.sy little bride who behaved so very snide, Inside a year perduced a pair of TWINS!

Since that time we get on better. Mary Ellen wrote a letter T' th' weekly paper, statin' ”District Member liked our ways”; Yes, Lower Flat's grow'd quite a place, runnin' other towns a race; But ther' ain't th' fun we had them good old days!

THE TRAIL

It measures the boundless distance, Led by wild ways that run Hither and thither in chase of the Winds That wors.h.i.+p the Northern Sun: The Trail! which, never ending, was never yet begun.

In the dip of the far horizon Trembles the Morning Star; To the heights of the fathomless ether Nor lock, nor bolt, nor bar; The Trail! G.o.d's finger beckoning to the new Home afar.

No sound in that void of Silence Save call of bird to its mate, Or cry of the lone coyote At the bars of hunger's gate; And the heart is drawn by the wond'rous dawn, or some mysterious Fate.

The Trail hath a storied splendor: Tepee and Indian Mound; Where the glory of G.o.d is chanted By no sacrilegious sound; Where the dumb brute bays HIS praise through Nights profound!

Here the haunts of men are bounden By the links of Custom's chain; There you find embosomed freedom In the heart's exquisite pain, And thereafter will be heard the cry, ”O, give me the wilds again!”

The Trail hath no languorous longing; It leads to no Lotus land; On its way dead Hopes come thronging To take you by the hand; He who treads the Trail undaunted, thereafter shall command!

THE KING OF THE KLONDIKE

We called him the King of the Klondike; but He really was ”Mac.”

He walked int' Dawson in tatters an' rags, His frozen feet tied in a pair of ol' bags, An' perceeded t' go on a couple of jags; Pack on his back.

He worked empty-bellied f'r many a day, Pore old Mac!

Stuck tight t' his diggin as if it was play; With a good game of poker 'till daylight he'd stay---- An' a gun he could han'le. I also might say He would crack

A fine joke. But he never was known Wasn't Mac.

T' refuse man 'r dog a crust 'r a bone.

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