but the old man yearned to share
Of the little children's innocent glee,
As they circled around with laugh and shout,
And told this rhyme at counting out:
"Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn,
Apple-seed and apple-thorn,
Wire, brier, limber, lock,
Twelve geese in a flock;
Some flew east, some flew west,
Some flew over the cuckoo's nest."
Willie and Bess, Georgie and May, —
Ah, the mirth of that summer day!
'Twas Father Time who had come to share
The innocent joy of those children there.
He learned betimes the game they played,
And into their sport with them went he, —
How could the children have been afraid,
Since little they recked who he might be?
They laughed to hear old Father Time
Mumbling that curious nonsense rhyme
Of intry-mintry, cutrey-corn,
Apple-seed and apple-thorn,
Wire, brier, limber, lock,
Twelve geese in a flock;
Some flew east, some flew west,
Some flew over the cuckoo's nest.
Willie and Bess, Georgie and May,
And joy of summer, – where are they?
The grim old man still standeth near,
Crooning the song of a far-off year;
And into the winter I come alone,
Cheered by that mournful requiem,
Soothed by the dolorous monotone
That shall count me off as it counted them, —
The solemn voice of old Father Time,
Chanting the homely nursery rhyme
He learned of the children a summer morn,
When, with "apple-seed and apple-thorn,"
Life was full of the dulcet cheer
That bringeth the grace of heaven anear:
The sound of the little ones hard at play, —
Willie and Bess, Georgie and May.
MODJESKY AS CAMEEL
AFORE we went to Denver we had heerd the Tabor Grand,
Allowed by critics ez the finest opry in the land;
And, roundin' up at Denver in the fall of '81,
Well heeled in p'int uv looker 'nd a-pinin' for some fun,
We told Bill Bush that we wuz fixed quite comf'table for wealth,
And hadn't struck that altitood entirely for our health.
You see we knew Bill Bush at Central City years ago;
(An' a whiter man than that same Bill you could not wish to know!)
Bill run the Grand for Tabor, 'nd he gin us two a deal
Ez how we really otter see Modjesky ez Cameel.
Three-Fingered Hoover stated that he'd great deal ruther go
To call on Charley Sampson than frequent a opry show.
"The queen uv tradegy," sez he, "is wot I've never seen,
And I reckon there is more for me in some other kind uv queen."
"Git out!" sez Bill, disgusted-like, "and can't you never find
A pleasure in the things uv life wich ellervates the mind?
You've set around in Casey's restawraw a year or more,
An' heerd ol' Vere de Blaw perform shef doovers by the score,
Only to come down here among us tong an' say you feel
You'd ruther take in faro than a opry like 'Cameel'!"
But it seems it wurn't no opry, but a sort uv foreign play,
With a heap uv talk an' dressin' that wuz both dekollytay.
A young chap sparks a gal, who's caught a dook that's old an' wealthy, —
She has a cold 'nd faintin' fits, and is gin'rally onhealthy.
She says she has a record; but the young chap doesn't mind,
And it looks ez if the feller wuz a proper likely kind
Until his old man sneaks around 'nd makes a dirty break,
And the young one plays the sucker 'nd gives the girl the shake.
"Armo! Armo!" she hollers; but he flings her on the floor,
And says he ainter goin' to have no truck with her no more.
At that Three-Fingered Hoover says, "I'll chip into this game,
And see if Red Hoss Mountain cannot reconstruct the same.
I won't set by an' see the feelin's uv a lady hurt, —
Gol durn a critter, anyhow, that does a woman dirt!"
He riz up like a giant in that little painted pen,
And stepped upon the platform with the women-folks 'nd men;
Across the trough of gaslights he bounded like a deer,
An' grabbed Armo an' hove him through the landscape in the rear;
And then we seen him shed his hat an' reverently kneel,
An' put his strong arms tenderly around the gal Cameel.
A-standin' in his stockin' feet, his height wuz six foot three,
And a huskier man than Hoover wuz you could not hope to see.
He downed Lafe Dawson wrasslin'; and one night I seen him lick
Three Cornish miners that come into camp from Roarin' Crick
To clean out Casey's restawraw an' do the town, they said.
He could whip his weight in wildcats, an' paint whole townships red,
But good to helpless folks and weak, – a brave and manly heart
A cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart;
Jest like the mountain pine, wich dares the storm that howls along,
But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song.
"Cameel," sez he, "your record is ag'in you, I'll allow,
But, bein' you're a woman, you'll git justice anyhow;
So, if you say you're sorry, and intend to travel straight, —
Why, never mind that other chap with which you meant to mate, —
I'll marry you myself, and take you back to-morrow night
To the camp on Red Hoss Mountain, where the boys'll treat you white,
Where Casey runs a tabble dote, and folks are brave 'nd true,
Where there ain't no ancient history to bother me or you,
Where there ain't no law but honesty, no evidence but facts,
Where between the verdick and the rope there ain't no onter acts."
I wuz mighty proud of Hoover; but the folks began to shout
That the feller was intrudin', and would some one put him out.
"Well, no; I reckon not," says I, or words to that effect,
Ez