On an evening dark and chill Came a shadow up the hill,-- Came a spectre, grim and white As a ghost that walks the night, Grim and bowed, and with the cry Of a wretch about to die,-- Came and fell and cried to me: "It is Telka come!" said she. So she fell and so she cried On that lonely mountain-side Where was Telka wont to bide.
"Who hath bribed those lips to lie? Telka's face was fair," quoth I; "Thine is furrowed with despair. There is winter in thy hair; But upon her beauteous head Was there summer glory shed,-- Such a glory as the sun, When his daily course is run, Smiles upon this mountain height As he kisses it good-night. There was music in her tone, Misery in thy voice alone. They have bid thee lie to me. Let me pass! Thou art not she! Let my sorrow sacred be Underneath this trysting tree!"
So in wrath I went my way, And they came another day,-- Came another day, and said: "Hush thy cry, for she is dead, Yonder on the mountain-side She is buried where she died, Where you twain were wont to bide, Where she came and fell and cried Pardon that thy wrath denied; And above her bosom grows As in mockery the Rose: It was white; but now 'tis red, And in shame it bows its head Over sinful Telka dead."
So they thought to silence me,-- As if love could silenced be! Fool were I, and fools were they! Scornfully I went my way, And upon the mountain-side "Telka!" evermore I cried. "Telka!" evermore I cry; Answer me the woods and sky: So the lonely years go by.
She is lost, and that is all; Sometime she shall hear my call, Hear my pleading call, and then Find her way to me again.
PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOÖLOGICAL GARDENS.
FRIEND, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know, And born in old Mizzoorah, where the 'coons in plenty grow. I, too, am native of that clime; but harsh, relentless fate Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble State; And I, who used to climb around, and swing from tree to tree, Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see. Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near, While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.
My pedigree is noble: they used my grandsire's skin To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within,-- Tom Patterson, of Denver; no ermine can compare With the grizzled robe that Democratic statesman loves to wear. Of such a grandsire I am come; and in the County Cole All up an ancient cottonwood our family had its hole. We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings, As we hustled round from day to day in search of bugs and things.