Page 22 - Poetry-Whimsy

It warn’t made up of gentle kids—of pretty kids—like you,
But gents ez hed their reg’lar growth, and some enough for two.

There woz Lanky Jim of Sutter’s Fork and Bilson of Lagrange,
And “Pistol Bob,” who wore that day a knife by way of change.
You start, you little kids, you think these are not pretty names,
But each had a man behind it, and—my name is Truthful James.
Thar was Poker Dick from Whisky Flat and Smith of Shooter’s Bend,
And Brown of Calaveras—which I want no better friend.
Three-fingered Jack—yes, pretty dears—three fingers—you have five.
Clapp cut off two—it’s sing’lar too, that Clapp aint now alive.
‘Twas very wrong, indeed, my dears, and Clapp was much to blame;
Likewise was Jack, in after years, for shootin’ of that same.
The nights was kinder lengthenin’ out, the rains had jest begun,
When all the camp came up to Pete’s to have their usual fun;
But we all sot kinder sad-like around the bar-room stove
Till Smith got up, permiskiss-like, and this remark he hove:
“Thar’s a new game down in Frisco, thet ez far ez I kin see,
Beats euchre, poker and van-toon, they calls the ‘Spellin’ Bee.’”
Then Brown of Calaveras simply hitched his chair and spake:
“Poker is good enough for me,” and Lanky Jim sez, “ Shake!”
And Bob allowed he warn’t proud, but he “must say right thar
That the man who tackled euchre hed his education sqar.”
This brought up Lenny Fairchild, the school-master, who said,
He knew the game and he would give instructions on that head.
“For instance, take some simple word,” sez he, “like ‘separate,’
Now who can spell it?” Dog my skin, ef thar was one in eight.
This set the boys all wild at once. The chairs was put in row,
And at the head was Lanky Jim, and at the foot was Joe,
And high upon the bar itself the school-master was raised,
And the bar-keep put his glasses down, and sat and silent gazed.
The first word out was “parallel,” and seven let it be,
Till Joe waltzed in his double “l” betwixt the “a” and “e”;
For, since he drilled them Mexicans in San Jacinto’s fight,
Thar warn’t no prouder man got up than Pistol Joe that night, —
Till “rhythm” came! He tried to smile, then said, “they had him there,”
And Lanky Jim, with one long stride got up and took his chair.

O little kids! my pretty kids, ‘twas touchin’ to survey
These bearded men, with weppings on, like school-boys at their play.
They’d laugh with glee, and shout to see each other lead the van,
And Bob sat up as monitor with a cue for a rattan,

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