"Done, pard--and mighty white of you. And now guess the country'll keep the trail somehow. I aint allowed to vote, the Warden said, But whacked my coat up on old Stanislow." THE CONVICTS' BALL San Quentin was brilliant. Within the halls Of the noble pile with the frowning walls (God knows they've enough to make them frown, With a Governor trying to break them down!) Was a blaze of light. 'Twas the natal day Of his nibs the popular John S. Gray, And many observers considered his birth The primary cause of his moral worth. "The ball is free!" cried Black Bart, and they all Said a ball with no chain was a novel ball; "And I never have seed," said Jimmy Hope, "Sech a lightsome dance withouten a rope." Chinamen, Indians, Portuguese, Blacks, Russians, Italians, Kanucks and Kanaks, Chilenos, Peruvians, Mexicans--all Greased with their presence that notable ball. None were excluded excepting, perhaps, The Rev. Morrison's churchly chaps, Whom, to prevent a religious debate, The Warden had banished outside of the gate. The fiddler, fiddling his hardest the while, "Called off" in the regular foot-hill style: "Circle to the left!" and "Forward and back!" And "Hellum to port for the stabbard tack!" (This great _virtuoso_, it would appear, Was Mate of the _Gatherer_ many a year.) "_Ally man_ left!"--to a painful degree His French was unlike to the French of Paree, As heard from our countrymen lately abroad, And his "_doe cee doe_" was the gem of the fraud. But what can you hope from a gentleman barred From circles of culture by dogs in the yard? 'Twas a glorious dance, though, all the same, The Jardin Mabille in the days of its fame Never saw legs perform such springs-- The cold-chisel's magic had given them wings. They footed it featly, those lades and gents: Dull care (said Long Moll) had a helly go-hence! 'Twas a very aristocratic affair: The _crême de la crême_ and _élite_ were there-- Rank, beauty and wealth from the highest sets, And Hubert Howe Bancroft sent his regrets. A PRAYER Sweet Spirit of Cesspool, hear a mother's prayer: Her terrors pacify and offspring spare! Upon Silurians alone let fall (And God in Heaven have mercy on them all!) The red revenges of your fragrant breath, Hot with the flames invisible of death. Sing in each nose a melody of smells, And lead them snoutwise to their several hells! TO ONE DETESTED Sir, you're a veteran, revealed In history and fable As warrior since you took the field, Defeating Abel. As Commissary later (or If not, in every cottage The tale is) you contracted for A mess of pottage. In civil life you were, we read (And our respect increases) A man of peace--a man, indeed, Of thirty pieces. To paying taxes when you turned Your mind, or what you call so, A wide celebrity you earned-- Saphira also. In every age, by various names, You've won renown in story, But on your present record flames A greater glory.