Say! _you_ feller! _You_-- With that spade and the pick!-- What do you 'pose to do On this side o' the crick? Goin' to tackle this claim? Well, I reckon You'll let up ag'in, purty quick! No bluff, understand,-- But the same has been tried, And the claim never panned-- Or the fellers has lied,-- For they tell of a dozen that tried it, And quit it most onsatisfied. The luck's dead ag'in it!-- The first man I see That stuck a pick in it Proved _that_ thing to me,-- For he sort o' took down, and got homesick, And went back whar he'd orto be! Then others they worked it Some--more or less, But finally shirked it, In grades of distress,-- With an eye out--a jaw or skull busted, Or some sort o' seriousness. The _last_ one was plucky-- He wasn't afeerd, And bragged he was "lucky," And said that "he'd heerd A heap of bluff-talk," and swore awkard He'd work any claim that he keered! Don't you strike nary lick With that pick till I'm through; This-here feller talked slick And as peart-like as you! And he says: "I'll abide here As long as I please!" But he didn't.... He died here-- And I'm his disease! HER LIGHT GUITAR She twankled a tune on her light guitar-- A low, sweet jangle of tangled sounds, As blurred as the voices of the fairies are, Dancing in moondawn dales and downs; And the tinkling drip of the strange refrain Ran over the rim of my soul like rain. The great blond moon in the midnight skies Paused and poised o'er the trellis eaves, And the stars, in the light of her upturned eyes, Sifted their love through the rifted leaves, Glittered and splintered in crystal mist Down the glittering strings that her fingers kissed. O the melody mad! O the tinkle and thrill Of the ecstasy of the exquisite thing! The red rose dropped from the window-sill And lay in a long swoon quivering; While the dying notes of the strain divine Rippled in glee up my spellbound spine. WHILE CIGARETTES TO ASHES TURN I "He smokes--and that's enough," says Ma-- "And cigarettes, at that!" says Pa. "He must not call again," says she-- "He _shall_ not call again!" says he. They both glare at me as before-- Then quit the room and bang the door.-- While I, their wilful daughter, say, "I guess I'll love him, anyway!" II At twilight, in his room, alone, His careless feet inertly thrown Across a chair, my fancy can But worship this most worthless man! I dream what joy it is to set His slow lips round a cigarette, With idle-humored whiff and puff-- Ah! this is innocent enough! To mark the slender fingers raise The waxen match's dainty blaze,