Do I sleep? do I dream? Do I wonder and doubt? Are things what they seem? Or is visions about? Is our civilization a failure? Or is the Caucasian played out? Which expressions are strong; Yet would feebly imply Some account of a wrong— Not to call it a lie— As was worked off on William, my pardner, And the same being W. Nye. He came down to the Ford On the very same day Of that lottery drawed By those sharps at the Bay; And he says to me, "Truthful, how goes it?" I replied, "It is far, far from gay; "For the camp has gone wild On this lottery game, And has even beguiled 'Injin Dick' by the same." Which said Nye to me, "Injins is pizen: Do you know what his number is, James?" I replied "7,2, 9,8,4, is his hand;" When he started, and drew Out a list, which he scanned; Then he softly went for his revolver With language I cannot command. Then I said, "William Nye!" But he turned upon me, And the look in his eye Was quite painful to see; And he says, "You mistake: this poor Injin I protects from such sharps as you be!" I was shocked and withdrew; But I grieve to relate, When he next met my view Injin Dick was his mate, And the two around town was a-lying In a frightfully dissolute state. Which the war-dance they had Round a tree at the Bend Was a sight that was sad; And it seemed that the end Would not justify the proceedings, As I quiet remarked to a friend. For that Injin he fled The next day to his band; And we found William spread Very loose on the strand, With a peaceful-like smile on his features, And a dollar greenback in his hand; Which, the same when rolled out, We observed with surprise, That that Injin, no doubt, Had believed was the prize,— Them figures in red in the corner, Which the number of notes specifies. Was it guile, or a dream? Is it Nye that I doubt? Are things what they seem? Or is visions about? Is our civilization a failure? Or is the Caucasian played out?

The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin

Of all the fountains that poets sing,— Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring; Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth; Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth; In short, of all the springs of Time That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, That ever were tasted, felt, or seen,— There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin. Anno Domini Eighteen-Seven, Father Dominguez (now in heaven,— Obiit, Eighteen twenty-seven) Found the spring, and found it, too, By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe; For his beast—a descendant of Balaam's ass— Stopped on the instant, and would not pass. The Padre thought the omen good, And bent his lips to the trickling flood; Then—as the chronicles declare, On the honest faith of a true believer— His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare, Filled like a withered russet-pear In the vacuum of a glass receiver, And the snows that seventy winters bring Melted away in that magic spring. Such, at least, was the wondrous news The Padre brought into Santa Cruz. The Church, of course, had its own views Of who were worthiest to use The magic spring; but the prior claim Fell to the aged, sick, and lame. Far and wide the people came: Some from the healthful Aptos creek Hastened to bring their helpless sick; Even the fishers of rude Soquel Suddenly found they were far from well; The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo Said, in fact, they had never been so: And all were-ailing,—strange to say,— From Pescadero to Monterey. Over the mountain they poured in With leathern bottles, and bags of skin; Through the cañons a motley throng Trotted, hobbled, and limped along. The fathers gazed at the moving scene With pious joy and with souls serene; And then—a result perhaps foreseen— They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin. Not in the eyes of Faith alone The good effects of the waters shone; But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, Of rough vacquero and muleteer; Angular forms were rounded out, Limbs grew supple, and waists grew stout; And as for the girls,—for miles about They had no equal! To this day, From Pescadero to Monterey, You'll still find eyes in which are seen The liquid graces of San Joaquin. There is a limit to human bliss, And the Mission of San Joaquin had this; None went abroad to roam or stay, But they fell sick in the queerest way,— A singular maladie du pays, With gastric symptoms: so they spent Their days in a sensuous content; Caring little for things unseen Beyond their bowers of living green,— Beyond the mountains that lay between The world and the Mission of San Joaquin. Winter passed, and the summer came: The trunks of madroño all aflame, Here and there through the underwood Like pillars of fire starkly stood. All of the breezy solitude Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay And resinous odors mixed and blended, And dim and ghost-like far away The smoke of the burning woods ascended. Then of a sudden the mountains swam, The rivers piled their floods in a dam. The ridge above Los Gatos creek Arched its spine in a feline fashion; The forests waltzed till they grew sick, And Nature shook in a speechless passion; And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen, The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin Vanished, and never more was seen! Two days passed: the Mission folk Out of their rosy dream awoke. Some of them looked a trifle white; But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright. Three days: there was sore distress, Headache, nausea, giddiness. Four days: faintings, tenderness Of the mouth and fauces; and in less Than one week,—here the story closes; We won't continue the prognosis,— Enough that now no trace is seen Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin.

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