Douglas William Jerrold 260

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Heinrich Heine

Jean Ingelow

JOHN HAY

JOHN HAY, statesman, diplomat, soldier, and author, born at Salem, Indiana, in 1838, died in 1905. He graduated from Brown University, and later became secretary to President Lincoln; served in the Civil War and was brevetted colonel. He distinguished himself as ambassador to England, and as Secretary of State. Among his works are "Castilian Days," "Pike County Ballads," and "Abraham Lincoln," written in collaboration with John G. Nicolay.

JIM BLUDSO

(From "Pike County Ballads." Copyright by Houghton,
Mifflin & Co., published by permission)

WAL

ALL, no! I can't tell whar he lives,
Becase 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 year,
That you haven't heard folks tell
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks
The night of the Prairie Belle?

He weren't no saint,-them engineers
Is pretty much all 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 hand 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 engine well,
Never be passed 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 ag'in the bank
Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their days on the Mississippi,
And her day come at last:

The Movastar was a better boat,

But the Belle she wouldn't be passed.
And so she come tearin' along that night-
The oldest craft on the line-

With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The bar bust out as she clared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,

And quick as a flash she turned, and made
For 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 ag'in' the bank

Till the last galoot's ashore."

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat

Jim Bludso's voice was heard,

And they all had trust in his cussedness
And knowed he would keep his word.
And, sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smoke-stacks fell,-

And Bludso's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

I

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 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.

LITTLE BREECHES

(From "Pike County Ballads." Copyright by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Published by permission)

DON'T go much on religion,

I never ain't had no show;

But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,

On the handful o' things I know.

I don't pan out on the prophets

And free will, and that sort of thing,But I b'lieve in God 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,

Pert and chipper and sassy,

Always ready to swear and fight,— And I'd larnt him ter chaw terbacker, Jest to keep his milk teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket

As I passed by Taggert's store:

I went in for a jug of molasses

And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started,I heard one little squall,

And hell-to-split over the prairie

Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-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 here all hope soured on me
Of my fellow critter's aid,—

I just flopped 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 sheep fold
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 pert 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 bringing him to his own,

Is a derned sight better business

Than loafing around The Throne.