And, sure's you're born, they all got off And Bludso's ghost went up alone He warn't no saint, but at jedgement That wouldn't shook hands with him. BANTY TIM (Remarks of Sergeant Tilmon Joy to the White Man's Committee of Spunky Point, Illinois) I reckon I git your drift, gents,- And whereas, and seein', and wherefore, The nigger has got to mosey From the limits o' Spunky P'int! Le's reason the thing a minute: I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat too, Though I laid my politics out o' the way For to keep till the war was through. But I come back here, allowin' Though it gravels me like the devil to train Now dog my cats ef I kin see, What you've got to do with the question Ef Tim shill go or stay. And furder than that I give notice, Ef one of you tetches the boy, He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime Than he'll find in Illanoy. Why, blame your hearts, jest hear me! You know that ungodly day When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped And torn and tattered we lay. When the rest retreated I stayed behind, Fur reasons sufficient to me, With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike, Lord! how the hot sun went for us, And br'iled and blistered and burned! That nigger-that Tim-was a crawlin' to me The Rebels seen him as quick as me, But he jumped for me, and shouldered me, Though a shot brought him once to his knees; But he staggered up, and packed me off, With a dozen stumbles and falls, So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer, He trumped Death's ace for me that day, You may rezoloot till the cows come home, Bret Harte (Francis) Bret Harte was born August 25, 1839, at Albany, New York. His childhood was spent in various cities of the East. Late in 1853 his widowed mother went to California with a party of relatives, and two months later, when he was fifteen, Bret Harte and his sister followed. He dreamed even at this age of being a poet. During the next few years he was engaged in school-teaching, typesetting, politics, mining and journalism, becoming editor of The Overland Monthly at San Francisco in 1868. Harte's fame came suddenly. Late in the sixties he had written a burlesque in rhyme of two Western gamblers trying to fleece a guileless Chinaman who claimed to know nothing about cards but who, it turned out, was scarcely as innocent as he appeared. Harte, in the midst of writing serious poetry, had put the verses aside as too crude and trifling for publication. Some time later, just as The Overland Monthly was going to press, it was discovered that the form was one page short. Having nothing else on hand, Harte had these rhymes Instead of passing unnoticed, the poem was quoted everywhere; it swept the West and captivated the East. When The Luck of Roaring Camp followed, Harte became not only a national but an international figure. England acclaimed him and The Atlantic Monthly paid him $10,000 to write for a year in his Pike County vein. set up. East and West Poems appeared in 1871; in 1872 he published an enlarged Poetical Works including many earlier pieces. His scores of short stories represent Harte at his best; 'M'liss," "Tennessee's Partner," "The Outcast of Poker Flat" these are the work of a lesser, transplanted Dickens. His novels are of minor importance; they are carelessly constructed, theatrically conceived; his characters are little more than badly-wired marionettes that betray every movement made by their manipulator. In 1872 Harte, encouraged by his success, returned to his native East; in 1878 he went to Germany as consul. Two years later he was transferred to Scotland and, after five years there, went to London, where he remained the rest of his life. Harte's later period remains mysteriously shrouded. He never came back to America, not even for a visit; he ceased to correspond with his family; he separated himself from all the most intimate associations of his early life. He died, suddenly, at Camberley, England, May 6, 1902. "JIM " Say there! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild? Well, no offense: Jim was my chum Down from up yar, Lookin' for Jim. Rum? I don't mind, Seein' it's you. Well, this yer Jim,- Sick, for a change. Well, here's to us: Eh? The h― you say! Dead? That little cuss? |