Each day to the King the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Pa.s.sed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened his windows and let the air Of the free heaven into his room.

And out he went in the world, and toiled In his own appointed way; And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the King was well and gay.

_John Hay._

JIM BLUDSO

Wal, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Because he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me.

Whar have you been for the last three years That you haven't heard folks tell How Jemmy Bludso pa.s.sed-in his checks, The night of the Prairie Belle?

He weren't no saint--them engineers Is all pretty much alike-- One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here in Pike.

A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row-- But he never flunked, and he never lied; I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had-- To treat his engines well; Never be pa.s.sed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ash.o.r.e.

All boats have their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last.

The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn't be pa.s.sed; And so come tearin' along that night,-- The oldest craft on the line, With a n.i.g.g.e.r squat on her safety valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made To that willer-bank on the right.

There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ash.o.r.e."

Through the hot black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And know he would keep his word.

And, sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,-- And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren't no saint--but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him.

He'd seen his duty, a dead-sure thing-- And went for it thar and then: And Christ ain't a going to be too hard On a man that died for men.

_John Hay._

WRECK OF THE "JULIE PLANTE"

On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre, De win' she blow, blow, blow, An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"

Got scar't an' run below; For de win' she blow lak hurricane, Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre, Wan arpent from de sh.o.r.e.

De Captinne walk on de fronte deck, An' walk de hin' deck, too-- He call de crew from up de hole He call de cook also.

De cook she's name was Rosie, She come from Montreal, Was chambre maid on lumber barge, On de Grande Lachine Ca.n.a.l.

De win' she blow from nor'--eas'--wes'

De sout' win' she blow, too, W'en Rosie cry "Mon cher Captinne, Mon cher, w'at I shall do?"

Den de Captinne t'row de big ankerre, But still de scow she dreef, De crew he can't pa.s.s on de sh.o.r.e, Becos' he los' hees skeef.

De night was dark, lak' one black cat, De wave run high an' fas', Wen de Captinne tak' de Rosie girl An' tie her to de mas'.

Den he also tak' de life preserve, An' jomp off on de lak', An' say, "Goa Rosie dear, I go drown for your sak'."

Nex' morning very early, 'Bout ha'f-pas' two--t'ree--four-- De Captinne, scow, an' de poor Rosie Was corpses on de sh.o.r.e; For he win' she blow lak' hurricane Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre, Wan arpent from de sh.o.r.e.

MORAL

Now, all good wood scow sailor man Tak' warning by dat storm, An' go an' marry some nice French girl An' leev on wan beeg farm; De win' can blow lak' hurricane, An' s'pose she blow some more, You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre, So long you stay on sh.o.r.e.

_William Henry Drummond._

THE ALARMED SKIPPER

"IT WAS AN ANCIENT MARINER"

Many a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though "lying low,"

How near New York their schooners ran.

They greased the lead before it fell, And then, by sounding through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck, so well, They always guessed their reckoning right.

A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, Could tell, by _tasting_, just the spot, And so below he'd "dowse the glim"-- After, of course, his "something hot."

Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock, This ancient skipper might be found; No matter how his craft would rock, He slept--for skippers' naps are sound!

The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He'd up, and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead.

One night, 'twas Jotham Marden's watch, A curious wag--the peddler's son-- And so he mused (the wanton wretch), "To-night I'll have a grain of fun.

"We're all a set of stupid fools To think the skipper knows by _tasting_ What ground he's on--Nantucket schools Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting!"

And so he took the well-greased lead And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck--a parsnip-bed-- And then he sought the skipper's berth.

"Where are we now, sir? Please to taste."

The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Then ope'd his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung!

The skipper stormed and tore his hair, Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden, "_Nantucket's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!_"

_James Thomas Fields._

THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN