I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him. Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months' proceedings of that same Society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare; And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules. Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault, It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault; He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass,--at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent. Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in. And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; And I've told in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. LUKE (IN THE COLORADO PARK, 1873) Wot's that you're readin'?--a novel? A novel!--well, darn my skin! You a man grown and bearded and histin' such stuff ez that in-- Stuff about gals and their sweethearts! No wonder you're thin ez a knife. Look at me--clar two hundred--and never read one in my life! That's my opinion o' novels. And ez to their lyin' round here, They belong to the Jedge's daughter--the Jedge who came up last year On account of his lungs and the mountains and the balsam o' pine and fir; And his daughter--well, she read novels, and that's what's the matter with her.