This brought up Lenny Fairchild, the schoolmaster, who said He knew the game, and he would give instructions on that head.

"For instance, take some simple word," sez he, "like 'separate:'

Now who can spell it?" Dog my skin, ef thar was one in eight.

This set the boys all wild at once. The chairs was put in row, And at the head was Lanky Jim, and at the foot was Joe, And high upon the bar itself the schoolmaster was raised, And the bar-keep put his gla.s.ses down, and sat and silent gazed.

The first word out was "parallel," and seven let it be, Till Joe waltzed in his "double l" betwixt the "a" and "e;"

For since he drilled them Mexicans in San Jacinto's fight Thar warn't no prouder man got up than Pistol Joe that night-- Till "rhythm" came! He tried to smile, then said "they had him there,"

And Lanky Jim, with one long stride, got up and took his chair.

O little kids, my pretty kids, 'twas touchin' to survey These bearded men, with weppings on, like schoolboys at their play.

They'd laugh with glee, and shout to see each other lead the van, And Bob sat up as monitor with a cue for a rattan, Till the Chair gave out "incinerate," and Brown said he'd be durned If any such blamed word as that in school was ever learned.

When "phthisis" came they all sprang up, and vowed the man who rung Another blamed Greek word on them be taken out and hung.

As they sat down again I saw in Bilson's eye a flash, And Brown of Calaveras was a-twistin' his mustache, And when at last Brown slipped on "gneiss," and Bilson took his chair, He dropped some casual words about some folks who dyed their hair.

And then the Chair grew very white, and the Chair said he'd adjourn, But Poker d.i.c.k remarked that HE would wait and get his turn; Then with a tremblin' voice and hand, and with a wanderin' eye, The Chair next offered "eider-duck," and d.i.c.k began with "I", And Bilson smiled--then Bilson shrieked! Just how the fight begun I never knowed, for Bilson dropped, and d.i.c.k, he moved up one.

Then certain gents arose and said "they'd business down in camp,"

And "ez the road was rather dark, and ez the night was damp, They'd"--here got up Three-fingered Jack and locked the door and yelled: "No, not one mother's son goes out till that thar word is spelled!"

But while the words were on his lips, he groaned and sank in pain, And sank with Webster on his chest and Worcester on his brain.

Below the bar dodged Poker d.i.c.k, and tried to look ez he Was huntin' up authorities thet no one else could see; And Brown got down behind the stove, allowin' he "was cold,"

Till it upsot and down his legs the cinders freely rolled, And several gents called "Order!" till in his simple way Poor Smith began with "O-r"--"Or"--and he was dragged away.

O little kids, my pretty kids, down on your knees and pray!

You've got your eddication in a peaceful sort of way; And bear in mind thar may be sharps ez slings their spellin' square, But likewise slings their bowie-knives without a thought or care.

You wants to know the rest, my dears? Thet's all! In me you see The only gent that lived to tell about the Spellin' Bee!

He ceased and pa.s.sed, that truthful man; the children went their way With downcast heads and downcast hearts--but not to sport or play.

For when at eve the lamps were lit, and supperless to bed Each child was sent, with tasks undone and lessons all unsaid, No man might know the awful woe that thrilled their youthful frames, As they dreamed of Angels Spelling Bee and thought of Truthful James.

* Qy. Genii.

ARTEMIS IN SIERRA

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Poet. Philosopher. Jones of Mariposa.

POET

Halt! Here we are. Now wheel your mare a trifle Just where you stand; then doff your hat and swear Never yet was scene you might cover with your rifle Half as complete or as marvelously fair.

PHILOSOPHER

Dropped from Olympus or lifted out of Tempe, Swung like a censer betwixt the earth and sky!

He who in Greece sang of flocks and flax and hemp,--he Here might recall them--six thousand feet on high!

POET

Well you may say so. The clamor of the river, Hum of base toil, and man's ign.o.ble strife, Halt far below, where the stifling sunbeams quiver, But never climb to this purer, higher life!

Not to this glade, where Jones of Mariposa, Simple and meek as his flocks we're looking at, Tends his soft charge; nor where his daughter Rosa-- (A shot.) Hallo! What's that?

PHILOSOPHER

A--something thro' my hat-- Bullet, I think. You were speaking of his daughter?

POET

Yes; but--your hat you were moving through the leaves; Likely he thought it some eagle bent on slaughter.

Lightly he shoots-- (A second shot.)

PHILOSOPHER

As one readily perceives.

Still, he improves! This time YOUR hat has got it, Quite near the band! Eh? Oh, just as you please-- Stop, or go on.

POET

Perhaps we'd better trot it Down through the hollow, and up among the trees.

BOTH

Trot, trot, trot, where the bullets cannot follow; Trot down and up again among the laurel trees.

PHILOSOPHER

Thanks, that is better; now of this shot-dispensing Jones and his girl--you were saying--

POET

Well, you see-- I--hang it all!--Oh! what's the use of fencing!

Sir, I confess it!--these shots were meant for ME.

PHILOSOPHER

Are you mad!

POET