And ease my rage out passing theer,
Guess I should go clean mad, that's all.
And thet's the reason why I call
This turn of road where I am took
Jest Old Nick's Gallop!"
Then his look
Grew more subdued yet darker still;
And as the horses up the hill
With loosen'd rein toil'd slowly, he
Went on in half soliloquy,
Indifferent almost if I heard,
And grimly grinding out each word.
II – JOE WILSON GOES A-COURTING
"There was a time, and no mistake,
When thet same ranche down in the brake
Was pleasanter a heap to me
Than any sight on land or sea.
The hosses knew it like their master,
Smelt it miles orf, and spank'd the faster!
Ay, bent to reach thet very spot,
Flew till they halted steaming hot
Sharp opposite the door, among
The chicks and children old and young;
And down I'd jump, and all the go
Was 'Fortune, boss!' and 'Welcome, Joe!'
And Cissy with her shining face,
Tho' she was missus of the place,
Stood larfing, hands upon her hips;
And when upon her rosy lips
I put my mouth and gave her one,
She'd cuff me, and enjy the fun!
She was a widow young and tight,
Her chap had died in a free fight,
And here she lived, and round her had
Two chicks, three brothers, and her dad,
All making money fast as hay,
And doing better every day.
Waal! guess tho' I was peart and swift,
Spooning was never much my gift;
But Cissy was a gal so sweet,
So fresh, so spicy, and so neat,
It put your wits all out o' place,
Only to star' into her face.
Skin whiter than a new-laid egg,
Lips full of juice, and sech a leg!
A smell about her, morn and e'en,
Like fresh-bleach'd linen on a green;
And from her hand when she took mine,
The warmth ran up like sherry wine;
And if in liquor I made free
To pull her larfing on my knee,
Why, there she'd sit, and feel so nice,
Her heer all scent, her breath all spice!
See! women hate, both young and old,
A chap that's over shy and cold,
And fire of all sorts kitches quick,
And Cissy seem'd to feel full slick
The same fond feelings, and at last
Grew kinder every time I passed;
And all her face, from eyes to chin,
Said *'Bravo, Joe! You're safe to win!'
And tho' we didn't fix, d'ye see,
In downright words that it should be,
Ciss and her fam'ly understood
That she and me would jine for good.
Guess I was like a thirsty hoss
Dead beat for days, who comes across
A fresh clear beck, and on the brink
Scoops out his shaky hand to drink;
Or like a gal or boy of three,
With eyes upon a pippin-tree;
Or like some Injin cuss who sees
A bottle of rum among the trees,
And by the bit of smouldering log,
Where squatters camp'd and took their grog
The night afore. Waal!" (here he ground
His teeth again with savage sound)
"Waal, stranger, fancy, jest for fun,
The feelings of the thirsty one,
If, jest as he scoop'd out his hand,
The water turn'd to dust and sand!
Or fancy how the lad would scream
To see thet fruit-tree jest a dream!
Or guess how thet poor Injin cuss,
Would dance and swear, and screech and fuss,
If when he'd drawn the cork and tried
To get a gulp of rum inside,
'Twarn't anything in thet theer style,
But physic stuff or stinking ile!
Ah! you've a notion now, I guess,
Of how all ended in a mess,
And how when I was putting in
My biggest card and thought to win,
The Old One taught her how to cheat,
And yer I found myself, clean beat!"
III – SAINT AND DISCIPLE
Joe Wilson paused, and gazed straight down,
With gritting teeth and bitter frown,
And not till I entreated him
Did he continue, – fierce and grim,
With knitted brow and teeth clench'd tight.
"Along this way one summer night,
Jest as I meant to take the prize,
Passed an Apostle– dern his eyes!
On his old pony, gravel-eyed,
His legs a-dangling down each side,
With twinkling eyes and wheedling smile,
Grinning beneath his broad-brimm'd tile,
With heer all scent and shaven face.
He came a-trotting to the place.
My luck was bad, I wasn't near,
But busy many a mile from yer;
And what I tell was told to me
By them as were at hand to see.
'Twam't every day, I reckon, they
Saw an Apostle pass their way!
And Cissy, being kind o' soft,
And empty in the upper loft,
Was full of downright joy and pride
To hev thet saint at her fireside —
One of the seventy they call
The holiest holy – dern 'em all!
O he was 'cute and no mistake,
Deep as Salt Lake, and wide awake!
Theer at the ranche three days he stayed,
And well he knew his lying trade.
'Twarn't long afore he heard full free
About her larks and thet with