So all day along the shore Shout the breakers, green and hoar, Weaving out their weird tune; Till at night the full moon Weds the dark with that ring Of gold that you see her fling On the misty air. Then homeward slow returning To slumbers deep I fare, Filled with an infinite yearning, With thoughts that rise and fall To the sound of the sea's hollow call, Breathed now from white-lit waves that reach Cold fingers o'er the damp, dark beach, To scatter a spray on my dreams; Till the slow and measured rote Brings a drowsy ease To my spirit, and seems To set it soothingly afloat On broad and buoyant seas Of endless rest, lulled by the dirge Of the melancholy surge. BLACKMOUTH, OF COLORADO "Who is Blackmouth?" Well, that's hard to say. Mebbe he might ha' told you, 't other day, If you'd been here. Now,--he's gone away. Come to think on, 't wouldn't ha' been no use If you'd called here earlier. His excuse Always was, whenever folks would ask him Where he hailed from, an' _would_ tease an' task him;-- What d' you s'pose? He just said, "I don' know." That was truth. He came here long ago; But, before that, he'd been born somewhere: The conundrum started first, right there. Little shaver--afore he knew his name Or the place from whereabouts he came-- On a wagon-train the Apaches caught him. Killed the old folks! But this cus'--they brought him Safe away from fire an' knife an' arrows. So'thin' 'bout him must have touched their marrows: They was merciful;--treated him real good; Brought him up to man's age well's they could. Now, d' you b'lieve me, that there likely lad, For all they used him so, went to the bad: Leastways left the red men, that he knew, 'N' come to look for folks like me an' you;-- Goldarned white folks that he never saw. Queerest thing was--though he loved a squaw, 'T was on her account he planned escape; Shook the Apaches, an' took up red tape With the U. S. gov'ment arter a while; Tho' they do say gov'ment may be vile, Mean an' treacherous an' deceivin'. Well, _I_ ain't sayin' our gov'ment is a sell.