Francis Bret Harte (Фрэнсис Брет Гарт)
Truthful James to the Editor
(YREKA, 1873) Which it is not my style To produce needless pain By statements that rile Or that go ’gin the grain, But here’s Captain Jack still a-livin’, and Nye has no skelp on his brain! On that Caucasian head There is no crown of hair; It has gone, it has fled! And Echo sez ”Where?” And I asks, ”Is this Nation a White Man’s, and is generally things on the square?” She was known in the camp As ”Nye’s other squaw,” And folks of that stamp Hez no rights in the law, But is treacherous, sinful, and slimy, as Nye might hev well known before. But she said that she knew Where the Injins was hid, And the statement was true, For it seemed that she did, Since she led William where he was covered by seventeen Modocs, and-- slid! Then they reached for his hair; But Nye sez, ”By the law Of nations, forbear! I surrenders--no more: And I looks to be treated,--you hear me?--as a pris’ner, a pris’ner of war!” But Captain Jack rose And he sez, ”It’s too thin! Such statements as those It’s too late to begin. There’s a MODOC INDICTMENT agin you, O Paleface, and you’re goin’ in! ”You stole Schonchin’s squaw In the year sixty-two; It was in sixty-four That Long Jack you went through, And you burned Nasty Jim’s rancheria, and his wives and his papooses too. ”This gun in my hand Was sold me by you ’Gainst the law of the land, And I grieves it is true!” And he buried his face in his blanket and wept as he hid it from view. ”But you’re tried and condemned, And skelping’s your doom,” And he paused and he hemmed-- But why this resume? He was skelped ’gainst the custom of nations, and cut off like a rose in its bloom. So I asks without guile, And I trusts not in vain, If this is the style That is going to obtain-- If here’s Captain Jack still a-livin’, and Nye with no skelp on his brain?
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