Part 58 (2/2)
To learn what he might know of love, I laughed all constancy to scorn.
”Behold yon happy, changeful dove!
Behold this day, all storm at morn, Yet now 't is changed to cloud and sun.
Yea, all things change--the heart, the head, Behold on earth there is not one That changeth not,” I said.
He drew a gla.s.s as if to scan The plain for steers; raised it and sighed.
He craned his neck, this cattle man, Then drove the cork home and replied: ”For twenty years (forgive these tears)-- For twenty years no word of strife-- I have not known for twenty years One folly from my wife.”
I looked that Texan in the face-- That dark-browed, bearded cattle man, He pulled his beard, then dropped in place A broad right hand, all scarred and tan, And toyed with something s.h.i.+ning there From out his holster, keen and small.
I was convinced. I did not care To argue it at all.
But rest I could not. Know I must The story of my Texan guide; His dauntless love, enduring trust; His blessed, immortal bride.
I wondered, marvelled, marvelled much.
Was she of Texan growth? Was she Of Saxon blood, that boasted such Eternal constancy?
I could not rest until I knew-- ”Now twenty years, my man,” said I, ”Is a long time.” He turned and drew A pistol forth, also a sigh.
”'Tis twenty years or more,” said he, ”Nay, nay, my honest man, I vow I do not doubt that this may be; But tell, oh! tell me how.
”'Twould make a poem true and grand; All time should note it near and far; And thy fair, virgin Texan land Should stand out like a Winter star.
America should heed. And then The doubtful French beyond the sea-- 'T would make them truer, n.o.bler men.
To know how this may be.”
”It's twenty years or more,” urged he, ”Nay, that I know, good guide of mine; But lead me where this wife may be, And I a pilgrim at a shrine.
And kneeling, as a pilgrim true”-- He, scowling, shouted in my ear; ”I cannot show my wife to you; She's dead this twenty year.”
_Joaquin Miller._
FABLE
The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter ”Little Prig”; Bun replied, ”You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere, And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.”
_Ralph Waldo Emerson._
HOCH! DER KAISER
Der Kaiser of dis Faterland Und Gott on high all dings command, Ve two--ach! Don't you understand?
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