Thompson Of Angels
It is the story of Thompson--of Thompson, the hero of Angels.
Frequently drunk was Thompson, but always polite to the stranger;
Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his revolver;
Great the mortality incident on that lightness and freedom.
Yet not happy or gay was Thompson, the hero of Angels;
Often spoke to himself in accents of anguish and sorrow,
'Why do I make the graves of the frivolous youth who in folly
Thoughtlessly pass my revolver, forgetting its lightness and freedom?
'Why in my daily walks does the surgeon drop his left eyelid,
The undertaker smile, and the sculptor of gravestone marbles
Lean on his chisel and gaze? I care not o'er much for attention;
Simple am I in my ways, save but for this lightness and freedom.'
So spake that pensive man--this Thompson, the hero of Angels,
Bitterly smiled to himself, as he strode through the chapparal musing.
'Why, oh, why?' echoed the pines in the dark olive depth far
resounding.
'Why, indeed?' whispered the sage brush that bent 'neath his feet
non-elastic.
Pleasant indeed was that morn that dawned o'er the barroom at Angels,
Where in their manhood's prime was gathered the pride of the hamlet.
Six 'took sugar in theirs,' and nine to the barkeeper lightly
Smiled as they said, 'Well, Jim, you can give us our regular fusil.'
Suddenly as the gray hawk swoops down on the barnyard, alighting
Where, pensively picking their corn, the favorite pullets are
gathered,
So in that festive bar-room dropped Thompson, the hero of Angels,
Grasping his weapon dread with his pristine lightness and freedom.
Never a word he spoke; divesting himself of his garments,
Danced the war-dance of the playful yet truculent Modoc,
Uttered a single whoop, and then, in the accents of challenge,
Spake: 'Oh, behold in me a Crested Jay Hawk of the mountain.'
Then rose a pallid man--a man sick with fever and ague;
Small was he, and his step was tremulous, weak, and uncertain;
Slowly a Derringer drew, and covered the person of Thompson;
Said in his feeblest pipe, 'I'm a Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley.'
As on its native plains the kangaroo, startled by hunters,
Leaps with successive bounds, and hurries away to the thickets,
So leaped the Crested Hawk, and quietly hopping behind him
Ran, and occasionally shot, that Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley.
Vain at the festive bar still lingered the people of Angels,
Hearing afar in the woods the petulant pop of the pistol;
Never again returned the Crested Jay Hawk of the mountains,
Never again was seen the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley.
Yet in the hamlet of Angels, when truculent speeches are uttered,
When bloodshed and life alone will atone for some trifling
misstatement,
Maidens and men in their prime recall the last hero of Angels,
Think of and vainly regret the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley!
Artemis In Sierra
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Poet. Philosopher. Jones of Mariposa.
POET
Halt! Here we are. Now wheel your mare a trifle
Just where you stand; then doff your hat and swear
Never yet was scene you might cover with your rifle
Half as complete or as marvelously fair.
PHILOSOPHER
Dropped from Olympus or lifted out of Tempe,
Swung like a censer betwixt the earth and sky!
He who in Greece sang of flocks and flax and hemp,--he
Here might recall them--six thousand feet on high!
POET
Well you may say so. The clamor of the river,
Hum of base toil, and man's ignoble strife,
Halt far below, where the stifling sunbeams quiver,
But never climb to this purer, higher life!
Not to this glade, where Jones of Mariposa,
Simple and meek as his flocks we're looking at,
Tends his soft charge; nor where his daughter Rosa--
(A shot.)
Hallo! What's that?
PHILOSOPHER
A--something thro' my hat--
Bullet, I think. You were speaking of his daughter?
POET
Yes; but--your hat you were moving through the leaves;
Likely he thought it some eagle bent on slaughter.
Lightly he shoots-- (A second shot.)
PHILOSOPHER
As one readily perceives.
Still, he improves! This time YOUR hat has got it,
Quite near the band! Eh? Oh, just as you please--
Stop, or go on.
POET
Perhaps we'd better trot it
Down through the hollow, and up among the trees.
BOTH
Trot, trot, trot, where the bullets cannot follow;
Trot down and up again among the laurel trees.
PHILOSOPHER
Thanks, that is better; now of this shot-dispensing
Jones and his girl--you were saying--
POET
Well, you see--
I--hang it all!--Oh! what's the use of fencing!
Sir, I confess it!--these shots were meant for ME.
PHILOSOPHER
Are you mad!
POET
God knows, I shouldn't wonder!
I love this coy nymph, who, coldly--as yon peak
Shines on the river it feeds, yet keeps asunder--
Long have I worshiped, but never dared to speak.
Till she, no doubt, her love no longer hiding,
Waked by some chance word her father's jealousy;
Slips her disdain--as an avalanche down gliding
Sweeps flocks and kin away--to clear a path for ME.
Hence his attack.
PHILOSOPHER
I see. What I admire
Chiefly, I think, in your idyl, so to speak,
Is the cool modesty that checks your youthful fire,--
Absence of self-love and abstinence of cheek!
Still, I might mention, I've met the gentle Rosa,--
Danced with her thrice, to her father's jealous dread;
And, it is possible, she's happened to disclose a--
Ahem! You can fancy why he shoots at ME instead.
POET
YOU?
PHILOSOPH ER
Me. But kindly take your hand from your revolver,
I am not choleric--but accidents may chance.
And here's the father, who alone can be the solver
Of this twin riddle of the hat and the romance.
Enter JONES OF MARIPOSA.
POET
Speak, shepherd--mine!
PHILOSOPHER
Hail! Time-and-cartridge waster,
Aimless exploder of theories and skill!
Whom do you shoot?
JONES OF MARIPOSA
Well, shootin' ain't my taste, or
EF I shoot anything--I only shoot to kill.
That ain't what's up. I only kem to tell ye--
Sportin' or courtin'--trot homeward for your life!
Gals will be gals, and p'r'aps it's just ez well ye
Larned there was one had no wish to be--a wife.
POET
What?
PHILOSOPHER
Is this true?
JONES OF MARIPOSA
I reckon it looks like it.
She saw ye comin'. My gun was standin' by;
She made a grab, and 'fore I up could strike it,
Blazed at ye both! The critter is SO shy!
POET
Who?
JONES OF MARIPOSA
My darter!
PHILOSOPHER
Rosa?
JO NES OF MARIPOSA
Same! Good-by!
