POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1948, 22 May 1880, Page 3

POETRY.

THE SOOUIS IN CAMP. By Wyoming Kit. "Pile on a few more knots, Tom ; it's snappin' cold to-night— The wind from Rocky Canon comes with keenest kind o' bite— Let's hev a rousin* old camp fire, an' then we'll have a chat; Please hand my rifle over hyar—mus' keep my paw on that; A feller does'nt allers know jist when he'll need his gun— Jist when the cussed Injun sneaks ar' huntin' arter fun. Light up yerpipe, old pardner; there'nuthin' lik a smoke To fill the intermission that's atween each yarn or joke. " I don't know what's got inter me, fur on the trial to-day, My thoughts hev bin a sooutin', 'round a camp thet's far away! A camp thet's in. 'God's oountry,' near that bright Ohio stream, An' the mem'ries of the past kep* crowdin' on me like a dream ! I seed the old log farm house, whar' I spent my early days; The school house with its noisy crew; the boys in all their plays ; I could see the old red meetin' house, whar' once I jined the churoh— '•.•.; Stood in with pious folks a while, then left 'em in the lurch!

" God bleßs that old red meeting' house ! I tell ye Tom, it makes My heart beat up with warmest love, an' every fibre quakes, When mem'ries shoot across my trail, of all the joys I seed, Afore I jined the gin'ral rush in the '49 stampede! (Whoa, Ohief! you cussed idiot! Don't jump at every sound! Best fill yourself with grass—whoa, boy ! jist quit that snortin' 'round ! Git baok thar' to yer grazin'—that war' a wolf you heard— Or else the hootin' of an owl, or flutterin' of a bird!) " As I war sayin', Tom, I used to lißten to the talk, When the old gray-headed preacher told us how to toe the chalk. If ever thar' war' a righteous man I'll back old Parson Hurd Agin the flyest Gospel sharp thet ever slung the Word! He wa'n't as eloquent as some, an' didn't wear sich clothes As them thet hung gold spectacles across a pious nose; But when it came to Gospel talk thet overtook the heart, The old man bulged away ahead, an' played a leadin' part!

" When I growed to be 18, or so, I mind I used ter sit An' hear the parson drawin' consolation from the writ; But some how or another, no matter how I tried, I couldn't keep these eyes o' mine from wanderm' to the side Whar all the country gals 'd sit, in the best o' Sunday clothes, A wonderin' arter meetin's out, who'd ketch the smartest beaus; This heart o' mine 'd beat tattoo when I'd git a lovin' look From a daisy with her face half hid Jbehind her singin' book!

"An' when the benediction an' Doxology war' played We'd draw up in a line outside the door, an' oh, how 'fraid I used ter feel, afore my turn, as each successive beau Marched out o' ranks up to his gal, an' crooked his arm, ye know ! But arter hookin' on myself, an' startin' down the lane « Toward her daddy's farm, my courage all came back again, An' then we'd laugh, an' chat, an' sing, an' squeeze each other's hands, An' say a thousan' things that none but lovers ' understands.

" I had the sweetest little gal that ever slung a kits, An' the days I spent a sparkin' war all giltedged with bliss ? I'd a married that thar' beauty, Tom, if that 'tarnal cry of gold Had'nt like an ocean billow over all the country rolled! I caught the fever, like the rest, an' kißsed the gal good-bye, An' left her standin' in the lane with sad an' tearful eye! I promised to go back, of course, at no great distant day, But when a man gits in these hills he's liable to stay. " I hunted gold industriously, but could't make a Btake, An' then I emigrated hyar, endeavorin' to make Enough to take me home, but failad—an' then fur Uncle Sam I started huntin' Inguns on the trail, an hyar I am ! But some day, Tom, I may go back to take a peep around At the old familiar objects on my early stampin' ground—"'Look up the gal?' not much, old pard ; I'll bet thet country school Is educatin' kids o' hers—whoa, Chief ! you 'tarnal fool !"