The Wit and Humor of America, Volume X (of X) 52 – Anonymous · Verses Across
Literature · Humor
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume X (of X) 52By Howard V. Sutherland
18
Literature · Humor
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume X (of X) 52
By Howard V. Sutherland
AnonymousEnglish
'Twas a sultry afternoon, about the middle of July, And the men who loafed in Dawson were feeling very dry. Of liquor there had long been none except a barrel or two, And that was kept by Major Walsh for himself and a lucky few.
Now, the men who loaf in Dawson are loafers to the bone,
And take it easy in a way peculiarly their own;
They sit upon the sidewalks and smoke and spit and chew,
And watch the other loafers, and wonder who is who.
They only work in winter, when the days are short and cold, And then they heat their cabins, and talk and talk of gold; They talk about provisions, and sometimes take a walk, But then they hurry back again and talk, and talk, and talk.
And the men who loaf in Dawson are superior to style, For the man who wears a coat and vest is apt to cause a smile; While he who sports suspenders or a belt would be a butt, And cause ironic comment, and end by being cut.
The afternoon was sultry, as I said some time before; 'Twas fully ninety in the shade (in the sun a darn sight more), And the men who sat on the sidewalks were, one and all, so dry That only one perspired, though every one did try.
Six men were sitting in a line and praying God for air; They were Joaquin Miller and "Lumber" Lynch and "Stogey" Jack Ver Mehr, "Swift-water" Bill and "Caribou" Bill and a sick man from the hills, Who came to town to swap his dust for a box of liver pills.
I said they prayed for air, and yet perhaps I tell a lie, For none of them are holy men, and all of them were dry; And so I guess 'tis best for me to say just what I think-- They prayed the Lord to pity them and send them all a drink.
Then up spoke Joaquin Miller, as he shook his golden locks, And picked the Dawson splinters from his moccasins and socks (The others paid attention, for when times are out of joint What Joaquin Miller utters is always to the point):
"A foot-sore, weary traveler," the Poet then began, "Did tell me many moons ago,--and oh! I loved the man,-- That Biggs who owns the claim next mine had started up a bar. Let's wander there and quench our thirst." All answered, "Right you are."
Now, Biggs is on Bonanza Creek, claim ninety-six, below; There may be millions in it, and there may not; none will know Until he gets to bedrock or till bedrock comes to him-- For Arthur takes it easy and is strictly in the swim.
It is true, behind his cabin he has sunk a mighty shaft (When the husky miners saw it they turned aside and laughed); But Biggs enjoys his bacon, and smokes his pipe and sings, Content to be enrolled among the great Bonanza Kings.
'Tis full three miles from Dawson town to Biggs' little claim; The miners' curses on the trail would make you blush with shame The while they slip, or stub their toes against the roots, or sink Twelve inches in the mud and slime before their eyes can wink.
But little cared our gallant six for roots, or slime, or mud, For they were out for liquor as a soldier is for blood; They hustled through the forest, nor stopped until they saw Biggs, wrapt in contemplation, beside his cabin door.
He rose to greet his visitors, and ask them for the news,
And said he was so lonesome that he always had the blues;
He hadn't seen a paper for eighteen months, he said,
And that had been in Japanese--a language worse than dead.
They satisfied his thirst for news, then thought they of their own, And Miller looked him in the eye and gave a little groan, And all six men across their mouths did pass a sun-burnt hand In a manner most deliberate, which all can understand.
"We heard you keep a bar, good Biggs," the gentle Poet said! "And so we thought we'd hold you up, and we are almost dead!" He said no more. Biggs understood, and thusly spoke to them In accents somewhat British and prefixed with a "Hem!"
"The bar you'll find a few yards hence as up that trail you go; I never keep my liquor in the blooming 'ouse, you know. Just mush along and take a drink, and when you are content Come back and tell me, if you can, who now is President."
They mushed along, those weary men, nor looked to left or right, But thought of how each cooling drink would trickle out of sight; And very soon they found the goal they came for from afar-- A keg, half full of water, in a good old gravel bar!
