Complete Poetical Works

Автор

Bret Harte

Жанр

Зарубежная классика

Год написания книги

2019

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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?

PHILOSOPHER

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?

JONES OF MARIPOSA

Same! Good-by!

JACK OF THE TULES

(SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA)

Shrewdly you question, Senor, and I fancy
You are no novice. Confess that to little
Of my poor gossip of Mission and Pueblo
You are a stranger!

Am I not right? Ah! believe me, that ever
Since we joined company at the posada
I've watched you closely, and—pardon an old priest—
I've caught you smiling!

Smiling to hear an old fellow like me talk
Gossip of pillage and robbers, and even
Air his opinion of law and alcaldes
Like any other!

Now!—by that twist of the wrist on the bridle,
By that straight line from the heel to the shoulder,
By that curt speech,—nay! nay! no offense, son,—
You are a soldier?

No? Then a man of affairs? San Sebastian!
'Twould serve me right if I prattled thus wildly