SUTTER'S CLAIM

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 was n'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!

Do n'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 did n't.... He died here —

And I'm his disease!