Why, blame your hearts, jest hear me! You know that ungodly day When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped And torn and tattered we lay. When the rest retreated I stayed behind, Fur reasons sufficient to me,— With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike, I sprawled on that damned glacee. Lord! how the hot sun went for us, And br’iled and blistered and burned! How the Rebel bullets whizzed round us When a cuss in his death-grip turned! Till along toward dusk I seen a thing I couldn’t believe for a spell: That nigger—that Tim—was a crawlin’ to me Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell! The Rebels seen him as quick as me, And the bullets buzzed like bees; But he jumped for me, and shouldered me, Though a shot brought him once to his knees; But he staggered up, and packed me off, With a dozen stumbles and falls, Till safe in our lines he drapped us both, His black hide riddled with balls. So, my gentle gazelles, thar’s my answer, And here stays Banty Tim: He trumped Death’s ace for me that day, And I’m not goin’ back on him! You may rezoloot till the cows come home, But ef one of you tetches the boy, He’ll wrastle his hash to-night in hell, Or my name’s not Tilmon Joy! _Bret Harte_ (Francis) Bret Harte was born August 25, 1839, at Albany, New York. His childhood was spent in various cities of the East. Late in 1853 his widowed mother went to California with a party of relatives, and two months later, when he was fifteen, Bret Harte and his sister followed. He dreamed even at this age of being a poet. During the next few years he was engaged in school-teaching, typesetting, politics, mining and journalism, becoming editor of _The Overland Monthly_ at San Francisco in 1868.