Truthful James. Further Language from Truthful James. (Nye's Ford, Stanislaus.) (1870.) Do I sleep? do I dream? Do I wonder and doubt? Are things what they seem? Or is visions about? Is our civilization a failure? Or is the Caucasian played out? Which expressions are strong; Yet would feebly imply Some account of a wrong-- Not to call it a lie-- As was worked off on William, my pardner, And the same being W. Nye. He came down to the Ford On the very same day Of that lottery drawed By those sharps at the Bay; And he says to me, "Truthful, how goes it?" I replied, "It is far, far from gay; "For the camp has gone wild On this lottery game, And has even beguiled 'Injin Dick' by the same." Which said Nye to me, "Injins is pizen: Do you know what his number is, James?" I replied "7,2, 9,8,4, is his hand;" When he started, and drew Out a list, which he scanned; Then he softly went for his revolver With language I cannot command. Then I said, "William Nye!" But he turned upon me, And the look in his eye Was quite painful to see; And he says, "You mistake: this poor Injin I protects from such sharps as you be!" I was shocked and withdrew; But I grieve to relate, When he next met my view Injin Dick was his mate, And the two around town was a-lying In a frightfully dissolute state. Which the war-dance they had Round a tree at the Bend Was a sight that was sad; And it seemed that the end Would not justify the proceedings, As I quiet remarked to a friend. For that Injin he fled The next day to his band; And we found William spread Very loose on the strand, With a peaceful-like smile on his features, And a dollar greenback in his hand; Which, the same when rolled out, We observed with surprise, That that Injin, no doubt, Had believed was the prize,-- Them figures in red in the corner, Which the number of notes specifies. Was it guile, or a dream? Is it Nye that I doubt? Are things what they seem? Or is visions about? Is our civilization a failure? Or is the Caucasian played out? The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin. Of all the fountains that poets sing,-- Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring; Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth; Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth; In short, of all the springs of Time That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, That ever were tasted, felt, or seen,-- There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin. _Anno Domini_ Eighteen-Seven, Father Dominguez (now in heaven,-- _Obiit_, Eighteen twenty-seven) Found the spring, and found it, too, By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe; For his beast--a descendant of Balaam's ass-- Stopped on the instant, and would not pass.