She reached the limit of the lines, She wore blue specs upon her nose, Wore rather short and manly clothes, And so set out to reach the mines.

Her pocket held a parasol Her right hand held a Testament, And thus equipped right on she went, Went water-proof and water-fall.

She saw a miner gazing down, Slow stirring something with a spoon; "O, tell me true and tell me soon, What has become of William Brown?"

He looked askance beneath her specs, Then stirred his c.o.c.ktail round and round.

Then raised his head and sighed profound, And said, "He's handed in his checks."

Then care fed on her damaged cheek, And she grew faint, did Mary Jane, And smelt her smelling-salts in vain, She wandered, weary, worn, and weak.

At last, upon a hill alone.

She came, and there she sat her down; For on that hill there stood a stone, And, lo! that stone read, "William Brown."

"O William Brown! O William Brown!

And here you rest at last," she said, "With this lone stone above your head, And forty miles from any town!

I will plant cypress trees, I will, And I will build a fence around, And I will fertilise the ground With tears enough to turn a mill."

She went and got a hired man, She brought him forty miles from town, And in the tall gra.s.s squatted down And bade him build as she should plan.

But cruel cow-boys with their bands They saw, and hurriedly they ran And told a bearded cattle man Somebody builded on his lands.

He took his rifle from the rack, He girt himself in battle pelt, He stuck two pistols in his belt, And, mounting on his horse's back, He plunged ahead. But when they showed A woman fair, about his eyes He pulled his hat, and he likewise Pulled at his beard, and chewed and chewed.

At last he gat him down and spake: "O lady dear, what do you here?"

"I build a tomb unto my dear, I plant sweet flowers for his sake."

The bearded man threw his two hands Above his head, then brought them down And cried, "Oh, I am William Brown, And this the corner-stone of my lands!"

_Joaquin Miller._

LITTLE BREECHES

I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On a handful o' things I know.

I don't pan out on the prophets And free-will and that sort of thing-- But I be'lieve in G.o.d and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along-- No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong-- Peart and chipper and sa.s.sy, Always ready to swear and fight-- And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket As I pa.s.sed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of mola.s.ses And left the team at the door.

They scared at something and started-- I heard one little squall, And h.e.l.l-to-split over the prairie!

Went team, Little Breeches, and all.

h.e.l.l-to-split over the prairie!

I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for 'em far and near.

At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat, but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.

And hero all hope soured on me Of my fellow-critter's aid; I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

By this, the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night; We looked in and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, As peart as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels.

He could never have walked in that storm: They jest scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm.

And I think that saving a little child, And fotching him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around the Throne.

_John Hay._

THE ENCHANTED SHIRT

The King was sick. His cheek was red, And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly zest, And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick, and a king should know, And doctors came by the score.

They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came, And one was as poor as a rat,-- He had pa.s.sed his life in studious toil, And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book; His patients gave him no trouble: If they recovered, they paid him well; If they died, their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the King on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut."

"Hang him up," roared the King in a gale-- In a ten-knot gale of royal rage; The other leech grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran-- _The King will be well, if he sleeps one night In the Shirt of a Happy Man_.

Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spoke, But they found no Happy Man.

They found poor men who would fain be rich, And rich who thought they were poor; And men who twisted their waist in stays, And women that shorthose wore.

They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife, he said, And the other one had not.

At last they came to a village gate, A beggar lay whistling there; He whistled, and sang, and laughed, and rolled, On the gra.s.s in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay; And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend!

You seem to be happy to-day."

"O yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad; "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad."

"This is our man," the courier said; "Our luck has lead us aright.

I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night."

The merry blackguard lay back on the gra.s.s, And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it, G.o.d wot," and he roared with the fun, "But I haven't a shirt to my back."