IN THE MISSION GARDEN.

(1865.)

FATHER FELIPE.

I SPEAK not the English well, but Pachita
She speak for me; is it not so, my Pancha?
Eh, little rogue ? Come, salute me the stranger
Americano.

Sir, in my country we say, "Where the heart is,
There live the speech." Ah! you not understand? So!
Pardon an old man,-what you call "ol fogy,"-

Padre Felipe!

Old, Señor, old! just so old as the Mission.

You see that pear-tree? How old you think, Señor?
Fifteen year? Twenty? Ah, Señor, just fifty

Gone since I plant him!

You like the wine? It is some at the Mission,
Made from the grape of the year Eighteen Hundred;
All the same time when the earthquake he come to
San Juan Bautista.

But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree;
And I am the olive, and this is the garden :
And Pancha we say; but her name is Francisca,
Same like her mother.

Eh, you knew her? No? Ah! it is a story;
But I speak not, like Pachita, the English :
So? If I try, you will sit here beside me.

And shall not laugh, eh?

When the American come to the Mission,
Many arrive at the house of Francisca ;
One, he was a fine man,—he buy the cattle

Of José Castro.

1

So he came much, and Francisca she saw him :
And it was Love-and a very dry season;
And the pears bake on the tree—and the rain come,
But not Francisca ;

Not for one year; and one night I have walk much
Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca :
Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca,-
Under the olive-tree.

Sir, it was sad ;

but I speak not the English;

So! she stay here, and she wait for her husband:
He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside;

There stands Pachita.

Ah! there's the Angelus. Will you not enter?
Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha?
Go, little rogue-stt-attend to the stranger.
Adios, Señor.

PACHITA (briskly).

So, he's been telling that yarn about mother!
Bless you, he tells it to every stranger :
Folks about yer say the old man's my father:

What's your opinion?

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS.

I RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games;

And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row

That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan

For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man,
And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim,
To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.

Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see
Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society,
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,
From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare ;
And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules,
Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost

mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault ;
It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault :

He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown ;
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent
To say another is an ass,--at least, to all intent:
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant,
Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order—when
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen;
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage

In a warfare with the remnants of a paleozoic age;

And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,
Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games:
For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
And I've told in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

GRATITUDE iz a debt, and, like all other debts, iz paid bekauze we are obliged to, not bekauze we love to.

Praize that ain't deserved iz no better than slander.

JOSH BILLINGS.

For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first view.

It was called after Dow,

Which the same was an ass;

And as to the how

Thet the thing kem to pass,

Just tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down.

here in the grass:

You see this 'yer Dow

Hed the worst kind of luck :

He slipped up somehow

On each thing thet he struck.

Why, ef he'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing

'ed get up and buck.

He mined on the bar

Till he couldn't pay rates;

He was smashed by a car

When he tunnelled with Bates;

And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five kids from the States.

It was rough, mighty rough;

But the boys they stood by,
And they brought him the stuff

For a house, on the sly;

And the old woman,-well, she did washing, and took

on when no one was nigh.

But this yer luck of Dow's
Was so powerful mean,

That the spring near his house

Dried right up on the green;

And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen.

Then the bar petered out,

And the boys wouldn't stay.

And the chills got about,

And his wife fell away;

But Dow, in his well, kept a peggin' in his usual ridiki

lous way.

One day-it was June

And a year ago, jest,—

This Dow kem at noon

To his work like the rest,

With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a derringer

hid in his breast.

He goes to the well;

And he stands on the brink,

And stops for a spell

Jest to listen and think :

For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir !), you see,

kinder made the cuss blink.

His two ragged gals

In the gulch were at play,

And a gownd that was Sal's

Kinder flapped on a bay ;

Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all,-as I've

heer'd the folks say.

And-That's a peart hoss

Thet you 've got,—aint it now?

What might be her cost?

Eh? Oh!-Well, then, Dow—

Let's see,-well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow.