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There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out
Over all the infernal roar, “I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot's ashore.”
Through the hot black breath of the burnin' boat
Jim Bludso's voice was heard,
And knowed he would keep his word.
Afore the smokestacks fell,
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He weren't no saint-but at jedgment
I'd run my chance with Jim, ’Longside of some pious gentlemen
That wouldn't shook hands with him.
And went for it thar and then;
On a inan that died for men.
THE MYSTERY OF GILGAL.
The darkest, strangest mystery
Tom Taggart's, of Gilgal.
But I'll tell the yarn to youuns.
And ca'mly drinked and jawed.
Remarked “A whisky-skin.”
I'll leave the choice to you.
Phinn to the drink put forth his hand;
Jest drap that whisky-skin.”
Knows their own whisky-skins !”
My bloomin' shrub, with you."
Which caused him great surprise.
Like bull-pups, cheered the furse.
Alone to spellin'-school.
WHO GOT THE WHISKY-SKIN ?
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. [Born about 1835. Author of The Blameless Prince, and other Poems, pube lished in 1869, and of at least two other volumes of poetry, previously issued].
PAN IN WALL STREET.
Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations, -
To throng for trade and last quotations,
Outrival, in the ears of people,
From Trinity's undaunted steeple ;
Even there I heard a strange wild strain
Sound high above the modern clamour, Above the cries of greed and gain,
The kerbstone war, the auction's hammer, And swift, on Music's misty ways,
It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days
Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. And as it stilled the multitude,
And yet more joyous rose and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood
At ease against a Doric pillar : One hand a droning organ played ;
The other held a Pan’s-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made
The reeds give out that strain impassioned. 'Twas Pan himself had wandered here
A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear
The prelude of some pastoral ditty ! The demigod had crossed the seas,-
From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, And Syracusan times, -to these
Far shores and twenty centuries later. A ragged cap was on his head :
But-hidden thus—there was no doubting That, all with crispy locks o'erspread,
His gnarlèd horns were somewhere sprouting ; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes,
Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, And trousers, patched of divers hues,
Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. He filled the quivering reeds with sound,
And o'er his mouth their changes shifted, And with his goat's-eyes looked around
Where'er the passing current drifted ; And soon, as on Trinacrian hills
The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, Even now the tradesmen from their tills,
With clerks and porters, crowded near him. The bulls and bears together drew
From. Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, As erst, if pastorals be true,
Came beasts from every wooded valley ; The random passers stayed to list,
A boxer Ægon, rough and merry, A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst
With Nais at ihe Brooklyn Ferry,
A one-eyed Cyclops halted long
In tattered cloak of army pattern,
A blowsy, apple-vending slattern;
From some new-fangled lunch-house handy,
To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy!
Like little Fauns began to caper :
Her tawny legs were bare and taper;
And gave its pence and crowded nigher,
aye the shepherd-minstrel blew
With throbs her vernal passion taught her ;--
Or by the Arethusan water !
Arise within these ocean-portals,
Enchantress of the souls of mortals !
A man in blue, with legal baton,
And pushed him from the step I sat on.
“Great Pan is dead !”—and all the people
The quarter sounded from the steeple.
F. BRET HARTE. [Born about 1835. A name now universally known, by the authorship, cf The Luck of Roaring Camp, and especially of the verses on That Heather Chinee).
THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. I RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James ; I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow. But first I would remark that it is not a proper plan For
any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, And, is a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.
Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see
Truthsul James; And I've told in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.
SIMPSON'S BAR, 1858.
And one answer won't do?
That I've struck, it is you.
cavortin' round 'yer in the dew.
Thar, -quit! Take a cheer.
Them theer cushings this year, —
they don't make such men about ’yer.