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النشر الإلكتروني

FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL

JAMES.

(NYE'S FORD, STANISLAUS.)

(1870.)

Do I sleep? do I dream?

Do I wonder and doubt?

Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?

Is our civilization a failure?

Or is the Caucasian played out?

Which expressions are strong;
Yet would feebly imply

Some account of a wrong

Not to call it a lie

As was worked off on William, my pardner,
And the same being W. Nye.

He came down to the Ford

On the very same day

Of that lottery drawed

By those sharps at the Bay;

And he says to me, "Truthful, how goes it?" I replied, "It is far, far from gay;

"For the camp has gone wild

On this lottery game,

And has even beguiled

'Injin Dick' by the same."

Which said Nye to me, "Injins is pizen :
Do you know what his number is, James?"

I replied "7,2,

9,8,4, is his hand; "

When he started, and drew
Out a list, which he scanned;
Then he softly went for his revolver
With language I cannot command.

Then I said, "William Nye!"
But he turned upon me,
And the look in his eye
Was quite painful to see;

And he says, "You mistake: this poor Injin
I protects from such sharps as you be!"
I was shocked and withdrew ;

But I grieve to relate,

When he next met my view

Injin Dick was his mate,

And the two around town was a-lying
In a frightfully dissolute state.

Which the war-dance they had
Round a tree at the Bend
Was a sight that was sad;
And it seemed that the end
Would not justify the proceedings,
As I quiet remarked to a friend.

For that Injin he fled

The next day to his band;

And we found William spread

Very loose on the strand,

With a peaceful-like smile on his features,

And a dollar greenback in his hand;

Which, the same when rolled out,

We observed with surpise,

That that Injin, no doubt,

Had believed was the prize,

Them figures in red in the corner, Which the number of notes specifies.

Was it guile, or a dream?
Is it Nye that I doubt ?

Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?

Is our civilization a failure?

Or is the Caucasian played out?

A GREYPORT LEGEND.

(1797.)

THEY ran through the streets of the seaport town;
They peered from the decks of the ships that lay :
The cold sea-fog that came whitening down
Was never as cold or white as they.

"Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden !
Run for your shallops, gather your men,
Scatter your boats on the lower bay."

Good cause for fear! In the thick midday
The hulk that lay by the rotting pier,
Filled with the children in happy play,
Parted its moorings, and drifted clear,-
Drifted clear beyond the reach or call,-
Thirteen children they were in all,—

All adrift in the lower bay!

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