LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

mirth;

      He may be far from savoury, he may be clad in rags,

      But tonight he feels as if he owns the earth.

      Says he: “Boys, here is where the shaggy North and I will shake;

      I thought I’d never manage to get free.

      I kept on making misses; but at least I’ve got my stake;

      There’s no more thawing frozen muck for me.

      I am going to God’s Country, where I’ll live the simple life;

      I’ll buy a bit of land and make a start;

      I’ll carve a little homestead, and I’ll win a little wife,

      And raise ten little kids to cheer my heart.”

      They signified their sympathy by crowding to the bar;

      They bellied up three deep and drank his health.

      He shed a radiant smile around and smoked a rank cigar;

      They wished him honour, happiness and wealth.

      They drank unto his wife to be — that unsuspecting maid;

      They drank unto his children half a score;

      And when they got through drinking very tenderly they laid

      The man from Eldorado on the floor.

      III

      He’s the man from Eldorado, and he’s only starting in

      To cultivate a thousand-dollar jag.

      His poke is full of gold-dust and his heart is full of sin,

      And he’s dancing with a girl called Muckluck Mag.

      She’s as light as any fairy; she’s as pretty as a peach;

      She’s mistress of the witchcraft to beguile;

      There’s sunshine in her manner, there is music in her speech,

      And there’s concentrated honey in her smile.

      Oh, the fever of the dance-hall and the glitter and the shine,

      The beauty, and the jewels, and the whirl,

      The madness of the music, the rapture of the wine,

      The languorous allurement of a girl!

      She is like a lost madonna; he is gaunt, unkempt and grim;

      But she fondles him and gazes in his eyes;

      Her kisses seek his heavy lips, and soon it seems to him

      He has staked a little claim in Paradise.

      “Who’s for a juicy two-step?” cries the master of the floor;

      The music throbs with soft, seductive beat.

      There’s glitter, gilt and gladness; there are pretty girls galore;

      There’s a woolly man with moccasins on feet.

      They know they’ve got him going; he is buying wine for all,

      They crowd around as buzzards at a feast,

      Then when his poke is empty they boost him from the hall,

      And spurn him in the gutter like a beast.

      He’s the man from Eldorado, and he’s painting red the town;

      Behind he leaves a trail of yellow dust;

      In a whirl of senseless riot he is ramping up and down;

      There’s nothing checks his madness and his lust.

      And soon the word is passed around — it travels like a flame;

      They fight to clutch his hand and call him friend,

      The chevaliers of lost repute, the dames of sorry fame;

      Then comes the grim awakening — the end.

      IV

      He’s the man from Eldorado, and he gives a grand affair;

      There’s feasting, dancing, wine without restraint.

      The smooth Beau Brummels of the bar, the faro men, are there;

      The tinhorns and purveyors of red paint;

      The sleek and painted women, their predacious eyes aglow —

      Sure Klondike City never saw the like;

      Then Muckluck Mag proposed the toast, “The giver of the show,

      The livest sport that ever hit the pike.”

      The “live one” rises to his feet; he stammers to reply —

      And then there comes before his muddled brain

      A vision of green vastitudes beneath an April sky,

      And clover pastures drenched with silver rain.

      He knows that it can never be, that he is down and out;

      Life leers at him with foul and fetid breath;

      And then amid the revelry, the song and cheer and shout,

      He suddenly grows grim and cold as death.

      He grips the table tensely, and he says: “Dear friends of mine,

      I’ve let you dip your fingers in my purse;

      I’ve crammed you at my table, and I’ve drowned you in my wine,

      And I’ve little left to give you but — my curse.

      I’ve failed supremely in my plans; it’s rather late to whine;

      My poke is mighty wizened up and small.

      I thank you each for coming here; the happiness is mine —

      And now, you thieves and harlots, take it all.”

      He twists the thong from off his poke; he swings it o’er his head;

      The nuggets fall around their feet like grain.

      They rattle over roof and wall; they scatter, roll and spread;

      The dust is like a shower of golden rain.

      The guests a moment stand aghast, then grovel on the floor;

      They fight, and snarl, and claw, like beasts of prey;

      And then, as everybody grabbed and everybody swore,

      The man from Eldorado slipped away.

      V

      He’s the man from Eldorado, and they found him stiff and dead,

      Half covered by the freezing ooze and dirt.

      A clotted Colt was in his hand, a hole was in his head,

      And he wore an old and oily buckskin shirt.

      His eyes were fixed and horrible, as one who hails the end;

      The frost had set him rigid as a log;

      And there, half lying on his breast, his last and only friend,

      There crouched and whined a mangy yellow dog.

      The Wood-Cutter

      The sky is like an envelope,

      One of those blue official things;

      And, sealing it, to mock our hope,

      The moon, a silver wafer, clings.

      What shall we find when death gives leave

      To read — our sentence or reprieve?

      I’m holding it down on God’s scrap-pile, up on the fag-end of earth;

      O’er me a menace of mountains, a river that grits

Скачать книгу