Tom Taggart stood behind his bar, The time was fall, the skies was fa'r, The neighbours round the counter drawed, And ca'mly drinked and jawed. At last come Colonel Blood of Pike, And old Jedge Phinn, permiscus-like, And each, as he meandered in, Remarked, "A whisky-skin." Tom mixed the beverage full and fa'r, And slammed it, smoking, on the bar. Some says three fingers, some says two,-- I'll leave the choice to you. Phinn to the drink put forth his hand; Blood drawed his knife, with accent bland, "I ax yer parding, Mister Phinn-- Jest drap that whisky-skin." No man high-toneder could be found Than old Jedge Phinn the country round. Says he, "Young man, the tribe of Phinns Knows their own whisky-skins!" He went for his 'leven-inch bowie-knife:-- "I tries to foller a Christian life; But I'll drap a slice of liver or two, My bloomin' shrub, with you." They carved in a way that all admired, Tell Blood drawed iron at last, and fired. It took Seth Bludso 'twixt the eyes, Which caused him great surprise. Then coats went off, and all went in; Shots and bad language swelled the din; The short, sharp bark of Derringers, Like bull-pups, cheered the furse. They piled the stiffs outside the door; They made, I reckon, a cord or more. Girls went that winter, as a rule, Alone to spellin'-school. I've searched in vain, from Dan to Beer- Sheba, to make this mystery clear; But I end with HIT as I did begin,-- "WHO GOT THE WHISKY-SKIN?" GOLYER. Ef the way a man lights out of this world Helps fix his heft for the other sp'ere, I reckon my old friend Golyer's Ben Will lay over lots of likelier men For one thing he done down here. You didn't know Ben? He driv a stage On the line they called the Old Sou'-west; He wa'n't the best man that ever you seen, And he wa'n't so ungodly pizen mean,-- No better nor worse than the rest. He was hard on women and rough on his friends; And he didn't have many, I'll let you know; He hated a dog and disgusted a cat, But he'd run off his legs for a motherless brat, And I guess there's many jess so. I've seed my sheer of the run of things, I've hoofed it a many and many a miled, But I never seed nothing that could or can Jest git all the good from the heart of a man Like the hands of a little child. Well! this young one I started to tell you about,-- His folks was all dead, I was fetchin' him through,-- He was just at the age that's loudest for boys, And he blowed such a horn with his sarchin' small voice, We called him "the Little Boy Blue." He ketched a sight of Ben on the box, And you bet he bawled and kicked and howled, For to git 'long of Ben, and ride thar too; I tried to tell him it wouldn't do, When suddingly Golyer growled,