No one knew where they came from. None Cared to ask if they had a mother. Runaway schoolboys, maybe. One Tall and dark as a spruce; the other Blue and gold in the eyes and hair, Soft and low in his speech, but rarely Talking with us; and we didn't care To get at their secret at all unfairly. For they were so quiet, so sad and shy, Content to trust each other solely, That somehow we'd always shut one eye, And never seem to observe them wholly As they passed to their work. 'Twas a worn-out claim, And it paid them grub. They could live without it, For the boys had a way of leaving game In their tent, and forgetting all about it. Yet no one asked for their secret. Dumb It lay in their big eyes' heavy hollows. It was understood that no one should come To their tent unawares, save the bees and swallows. So they lived alone. Until one warm night I was sitting here at the tent-door,--so, sir! When out of the sunset's rosy light Up rose the Sheriff of Mariposa. I knew at once there was something wrong, For his hand and his voice shook just a little, And there isn't much you can fetch along To make the sinews of Jack Hill brittle. "Go warn the Babes!" he whispered, hoarse; "Tell them I'm coming--to get and scurry; For I've got a story that's bad,--and worse, I've got a warrant: G-d d--n it, hurry!" Too late! they had seen him cross the hill; I ran to their tent and found them lying Dead in each other's arms, and still Clasping the drug they had taken flying. And there lay their secret cold and bare, Their life, their trial--the old, old story! For the sweet blue eyes and the golden hair Was a WOMAN'S shame and a WOMAN'S glory. "Who were they?" Ask no more, or ask The sun that visits their grave so lightly; Ask of the whispering reeds, or task The mourning crickets that chirrup nightly. All of their life but its love forgot, Everything tender and soft and mystic, These are our Babes in the Woods,--you've got, Well--human nature--that's characteristic. THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE It was noon by the sun; we had finished our game, And was passin' remarks goin' back to our claim; Jones was countin' his chips, Smith relievin' his mind Of ideas that a "straight" should beat "three of a kind," When Johnson of Elko came gallopin' down, With a look on his face 'twixt a grin and a frown, And he calls, "Drop your shovels and face right about, For them Chinees from Murphy's are cleanin' us out-- With their ching-a-ring-chow And their chic-colorow They're bent upon making No slouch of a row."