Poetry

fog’s a bore,
Sooth to say my throat is sore,
Hoarse I’m getting too.

Let me to thy chamber creep,
Let me creep up, do-oo-oo!
I’ll not again disturb thy sleep,
Nor more before thy window weep,
Listen, love, and do not keep
Me longer in the dew.

Listen, maiden, to my song,
Listen, now come, do-oo-oo-oo!
Do not deem my rhyming wrong,
I’m not of the ribald throng,
Let me in, I merely long
To read my rhymes to you.

San Francisco, March 16, 1870.

Science

The winds of heaven trample down the pines
Or creep in lazy tides along the lea;
Lead the wild waters from the smitten rock.
Or crawl with childish babble to the sea;
But why the tempests out of heaven blow,
Or what the purpose of the seaward flow,
No man hath known, and none shall ever know.

Why seek to know? To follow nature up
Against the current of her course, why care?
Vain is the toil; he’s wisest still who knows
All science is but formulated prayer⁠—
Prayer for the warm winds and the quickening rain,
Prayer for sharp sickle and for laboring swain.
To gather from the planted past the grain.

The Mummery

The Two Cavees

Dramatis Personae

• Fitch, a pelter of railrogues

• Pickering, his partner, an enemy to sin

• Old Nick, a general blackwasher

• Dead Cat, a missile

• Antique Egg, another

• Railrouges, Dump-Carters, Navvies and Unassorted Shovelry in the lower distance

Scene⁠—The Brink of a Railway Cut, a Mile Deep.

Time⁠—1875.

Fitch	Gods! what a steep declivity! Below I see the lazy dump-carts come and go, Creeping like beetles and about as big. The delving Paddies⁠—
Pickering	Case of infra dig.
Fitch	Loring, light-minded and unmeaning quips Come with but scant propriety from lips Fringed with the blue-black evidence of age. ’Twere well to cultivate a style more sage, For men will fancy, hearing how you pun, Our foulest missiles are but thrown in fun. Enter Dead Cat. Here’s one that thoughtfully has come to hand; Slant your fine eye below and see it land. Seizes Dead Cat by the tail and swings it in act to throw.
Dead Cat	Singing. Merrily, merrily, round I go⁠— Over and under and at. Swing wide and free, swing high and low The anti-monopoly cat! O, who wouldn’t be in the place of me, The anti-monopoly cat? Designed to admonish, Persuade and astonish The capitalist and⁠—
Fitch	Letting go. Scat! Exit Dead Cat.
Pickering	Huzza! good Deacon, well and truly flung! Pat Stanford it has grassed, and Mike de Young. Mike drives a dump-cart for the villains, though ’Twere fitter that he pull it. Well, we owe The traitor one for leaving us!⁠—some day We’ll get, if not his place, his cart away. Meantime fling missiles⁠—any kind will do. Enter Antique Egg. Ha! we can give them an ovation, too!
Antique Egg	In the valley of the Nile, Where the Holy Crocodile Of immeasurable smile Blossoms like the early rose, And the Sacred Onion grows⁠— When the Pyramids were new And the Sphinx possessed a nose, By a storkess I was laid In the cool papyrus shade, Where the rushes later grew, That concealed the little Jew, Baby Mose. Straining very hard to hatch, I disrupted there my yolk; And I felt my yellow streaming Through my white; And the dream that I was dreaming Of posterity was broke In a night. Then from the papyrus-patch By the rising waters rolled, Passing many a temple old, I proceeded to the sea. Memnon sang, one morn, to me, And I heard Cambyses sass The tomb of Ozymandias!
Fitch	O, venerablest orb of all the earth, God rest the lady fowl that gave thee birth! Fit missile for the vilest hand to throw⁠— I freely tender thee mine own. Although As a bad egg I am myself no slouch, Thy riper years thy ranker worth avouch. Now, Pickering, please expose your eye and say If⁠—whoop!⁠—Exit Egg. I’ve got the range.
Pickering	Hooray! hooray! A grand good shot, and Teddy Colton’s down: It burst in thunderbolts upon his crown! Larry O’Crocker drops his pick and flies, And deafening odors scream along the skies! Pelt ’em some more.
Fitch	There’s nothing left but tar⁠— I wish I were a Yahoo.
Pickering	Well, you are. But keep the tar. How well I recollect, When Mike was in with us⁠—proud, strong, erect⁠— Mens conscia recti⁠—flinging mud, he stood, Austerely brave, incomparably good, Ere yet for filthy lucre he began To drive a cart as Stanford’s hired man, That pitch-pot bearing in his hand, Old Nick Appeared and tarred us all with the same stick. Enter Old Nick. I hope he won’t return and use his arts To make us part with our immortal parts.
Old Nick	Make yourself easy on that score my lamb; For both your souls I wouldn’t give a damn! I want my tar-pot⁠—hello! where’s the stick?
Fitch	Don’t look at me that fashion!⁠—look at Pick.
Pickering	Forgive me, father⁠—pity my remorse! Truth is⁠—Mike took that stick to spank his horse. It fills my pericardium with grief That I kept company with such a thief.
	Endeavoring to get his handkerchief, he opens his coat and the tar-stick falls out. Nick picks it up, looks at the culprit reproachfully and withdraws in tears.
Fitch	Excitedly. O Pickering, come hither to the brink⁠— There’s something going on down there, I think! With many an upward smile and meaning wink The navvies all are running from the cut Like lunatics, to right and left⁠—
Pickering	Tut, tut⁠— ’Tis only some poor sport or boisterous joke. Let us sit down and have a quiet smoke. They sit and light cigars.
Fitch	Singing. When first I met Miss Toughie I smoked a fine cigyar, An’ I was on de dummy And she was in de cyar.
Both	Singing. An’ I was on de dummy And she was in de cyar.
Fitch	Singing. I couldn’t go to her, An’ she wouldn’t come to me; An’ I was as oneasy As a gander on a tree.
Both	Singing. An’ I was as oneasy As a gander on a tree.
Fitch	Singing. But purty soon I weakened An’ lef’ de dummy’s bench, An’ frew away a ten-cent weed To win a five-cent wench!
Both	Singing. An’ frew away a ten-cent weed To win a five-cent wench!
Fitch	Is there not now a certain substance sold Under the name of fulminate of