in the distance, furFrom danger, a voice echoed her, —
The dem'd Apostle's, from some place
Where he had hid his ugly face, —
Crying out faint and thick and clear,
Yes, villain, touch her if you deer!'
So riled I was, to be so beat,
I could have Struck her to my feet
I didn't tho', tho' sore beset —
I never struck a woman yet.
"But off I walked right up the pass,
And found the men among the grass,
And when I came in sight said flat,
What's this yer game Cissy is at?
She's thrown me off, and taken pity
On an Apostle from the City.
Five wives already, too, has he —
Poor cussed things as e'er I see —
Does she mean mischief or a lark?'
Waal, all the men at thet look'd dark,
And scratch'd their heads and seem'd in
doubt.
At last her brother Jim spoke out —
Joe, don't blame us– by George, it's true,
We're chawed by this as much as you;
We've done our best and tried and tried,
But Ciss is off her head with pride,
And all her thoughts, both night and day,
Are with the Apostles fur away.
"O that I were in bliss with them
Theer in the new Jerusalem!"
She says; and when we laugh and sneer,
Ses we're jest raging wolves down here.
She's a bit dull at home d'ye see,
Allays liked heaps of company,
And now the foolish critter paints
A life of larks among the Saints.
We've done our best, don't hev a doubt,
To keep the old Apostle out:
We've trained the dogs to seize and bite him,
We've got up ghosts at night to fright him,
Doctor'd his hoss and so upset him,
Put tickle-grass in bed to fret him,
Jalap'd his beer and snuffed his tea too,
Gunpowder in his pipe put free too;
A dozen times we've well-nigh kill'd him,
We've skeer'd him, shaken him, and spiff'd
him;
In fact, done all we deer,' said Jim,
Against a powerful man like him;
But all in vain we've hed our sport;
Jest like a cat that can't be hurt,
With nine good lives if he hev one.
Is this same Hiram Higginson!'"
V – JOE ENDS HIS STORY. – FIRST GLIMPSE OF UTAH
Joe paused, for down the mountain's brow
His hastening horses trotted now.
Into a canyon green and light,
Thro' which a beck was sparkling light,
Quickly we wound. Joe Wilson lit
His cutty pipe, and suck'd at it
In silence grim; and when it drew,
Puff after puff of smoke he blew,
With blank eye fixed on vacancy.
At last he turned again to me,
And spoke with bitter indignation
The epilogue of his narration.
"Waal, stranger, guess my story's told,
The Apostle beat and I was bowl'd.
Reckon I might have won if I
Had allays been at hand to try;
But I was busy out of sight,
And he was theer, morn, noon, and night,
Playing his cards, and waal it weer
For him I never caught him theer.
To cut the story short, I guess
He got the Prophet to say 'yes,'
And Cissy without much ado
Gev her consent to hev him too;
And one fine morning off they druv
To what he called the Abode of Love —
A dem'd old place, it seems to me,
Jest like a dove-box on a tree,
Where every lonesome woman-soul
Sits shivering in her own hole,
And on the outside, free to choose,
The old cock-pigeon struts and coos.
I've heard from many a one that Ciss
Has found her blunder out by this,
And she'd prefer for company
A brisk young chap, tho' poor, like me,
Than the sixth part of him she's won —
The holy Hiram Iligginson.
I've got a peep at her since then,
When she's crawl'd out of thet theer den,
But she's so pale and thin and tame
I shouldn't know her for the same,
No flesh to pinch upon her cheek,
Her legs gone thin, no voice to speak,
Dabby and crush'd, and sad and flabby,
Sucking a wretched squeaking baby;
And all the fun and all the light
Gone from her face, and left it white.
Her cheek 'll take 'feeble flush,
But hesn't blood enough to blush;
Tries to seem modest, peart and sly,
And brighten up if I go by,
But from the corner of her eyes
Peeps at me quietly, and sighs.
Reckon her luck has been a stinger!
She'd bolt if I held up my finger;
But tho' I'm rough, and wild, and free,
Take a Saint's leavings – no not me!
You've heerd of Vampires – them that rise
At dead o' night with flaming eyes,
And into women's beds'll creep
To suck their blood when they're asleep.
I guess these Saints are jest the same,
Sucking the life out is their game;
And tho' it ain't in the broad sun
Or in the open streets it's done,
There ain't a woman they clap eyes on
Their teeth don't touch, their touch don't pison;
Thet's their dem'd way in this yer spot —
Grrr! git along, hoss! dem you, trot!"
From pool to pool the wild beck sped
Beside
