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THE AMERICAN SPORTSMAN'S JOURNAL, 



NEW YORK, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1878. 



ARIZONA IN VERSE. 



THE following beautiful stanzas are from a rough old sol- 

 dier, who is now serving his country in Arizona. We as- 

 sure our readers that in his attempt to delineate the charms of 

 his abiding place, he does not go beyond Ids station, either as 

 soldier or rhyme singer. We will not attempt to place too 

 high a standard upon his effusion, as he seems to have a mod- 

 est opinion of it himself. It is rather long, and would have 

 been longer had we not mercifully cut it short, perceiving that 

 he was going on from bad to verse (as a German might pro- 

 nounce it). His description of the country is very truthful, 

 and will be valued by all our readers who propose to migrate 

 to his section.— Ed. P. & B. 



To Mars I bid a glad farewell, 

 . And turn my back upon Bellona, 

 To photograph In doggerel 



The features of sweet Arizona— 

 The stinging grass, the thorny plants, 



And ail its prickly, tropic glories ; 

 The thitvlng, starved inhabitants, 



Who look so picturesque in stories ; 



The dnsty, hot, long dreary way, 

 Where 'neath a blazing ami you totter, 

 To reach a camp at close of day 



And find It destitute of water j 

 The dying mule, the dried up spring, 



Which novel writers seldom notice ; 

 The song of blood the mosquitoes sing, 



And midnight howling of coyotes. 



Tarantulas and centipedes, 

 Horned toads and mesquit daggers, • 



With thorny bushes and sharp weeds 

 To bleed the traveler as he staggers. 



Why paint things in a rosy light, 



And never reli the fact, thus : 

 How one sits down to rest at night, 



And often squats upon a cactus ? 



The night bird's music, sweet and clear, 



Is ever pictured, not a little ; 

 A search might prove, quite lying near, 



The habitation of a beetle. 



And oft at night the sentinel, 

 Who, dozing, dreams of distant battle, 



Is roused in flight to hear the yell 

 Of Indians who have nipped his oattle. 



As desert, mountain, rock and sand, 



Comprise the topographic features, 

 There's little left at my command, 



Except to paint the living creatures. 

 In point of energy and sense, 



The wild Apaeaes are the head men ; 

 And bo, in fairness, I commence 



To tell you something of the red men. 



Bach mountain ohaln contains a hive 



Of these marauding sons of thunder, 

 Who somehow manage and contrive 



To live upon mescal and plunder. 



Prom lofty crags they watch the route 

 O'er which a train is slowly creeping, 



And, with a wild, blood-curdling Bhout, 

 Across the desert come they sweeping. 



But here their valor takes a turn ; 



With carbine raised from off your saddle. 

 The " noble red " will take to flight, 



Nor blush to think he must skedadle. 

 Too long my pen has dwelt upon 



These foes to railroads, soap and labor ; 

 A few short years and they are gone 



Beyond the reach of gun or sabre. 



Now, torn we to another race 



Inhabiting this Bunny region : 

 I calm and fearless stoop to trace 



Their manners, habits and religion. 



There is no fairer law than that 



Which gives to Ctesar what is Csesar's, 

 Yet this is not a land of fate 



Because the people are called "Greasers." 

 The women dress upon a plan 



Resembling Frsnt-h Zouaves or Turcos, 

 And thus God's last great girts to man 



Appear but little elBe than scarecrows. 



With face concealed from human Bight, 

 And legs espnsed to all that passes, 



Their color varie9, in the light, 

 Between new leather and molasses. 



Upon their heads, in triumph reign, 

 Great swarms of vermin, fat and saucy; 



These rovers on the Spanish Main 

 Cruise heartless o'er the ocean glossy . 



Their mode of travel on the road 

 Would frighten one who never met a 



Dirty, sereamlng, stupid load 

 Of greasers In an old coreta. 



Great wooden wheels devoid of greaBe, 

 And oxen rushing with a vengeance, 



With noise like forty thousand geese, 

 Or like a score of new steam engines ; 



They plow the earth with forked logs; 



For fuel dig the earth with shovels ; 

 Cut grass with hoes, chain up their hogs, 



And keep their horses in their hovels. 



When Gabriel Mows his final tramp, 



And all the nations are paraded 

 For grand inspection in a lump, 



This breed will prove one moat degraded. 

 An earthquake which should sink the land 



(Some great subterranean motion), 

 . And leave this tract of barren sand 



The pavement of a heaving ocean ; 



Some huge convulsive water shake, 



Some terrible spasmodic movement, 

 Subsiding but to leave a lake, 



Would be a most desired improvement, 

 Their language is a mongrel whine, 



From which the meaning seems to vanish 

 Like streogth from lager beer or wine— 



A parody upon the Spanish. 



On what they live besides the air 

 You may perhaps be interested ; 



They have as queer a bill of fare 

 As human stomach e'er digested. 



They eat frijoles and dried corn, 

 And on a hog's intestines riot ; 



Tortillas, sheepsheads (hair and horn), 

 With chile for the favorite aiet ; 



Plnoche, water-melon seed, 

 Bad eggs, strong onions and ptnola ; 



But when bard up for other feed 

 They live on beans of mesqnlt solely. 



The greaser little cares or feels, 



So he bnt apes the Spanish hero, 

 With monstrous spurs upon his heels 



And on his head a wide sombrero. 

 He looks so grim and full of fight, 



You might suppose his temper soured ; 

 But danger turns him nearly white, 



And proves his hero bat a coward. 

 He grimly scouts at gringo Jokes, 



Though he has not a single tlaco ; 

 With dignity he calmly smokes 



His cigarette ot bad tobacco. 



They tell a thousand barefaced HeB, 



To all the saints in heaven appealing ; 

 Confess their slus with tearful eyes, 



Devoutly pray, but keep on stealing. 

 They go to church, believe in hell, 



Where their own torments must be hot ones ; 

 They play on addles, ring a bell, 



And worship God with drums and shot-guns. 

 I've not, in picturing this clime, 



Been either brilliant or pathetic, 

 But told of facts, in simple rhyme, 



By far more truthful than pootlc. 



If any think me too severe, 

 Or call my yarn a wicked libel, 



I'll take, to prove myself sincere, 

 My davy on a Mormon Bible. 

 Camp Verde, Kov. 15, 1S7S. 



For Forest and Stream and Rod and Gun. 



I i T) OY8, do you notice how bright the stars are at this 

 -D altitude ?" 



For some moments there was no reply from either of the 

 other four weary miners, or rather prospectors, who were 

 stretched before their camp Are, on one of the many plateaus 

 that form the main divide of the Rocky Mountains. A hard 

 day's work with pick and shovel in a prospect hole, had tired 

 us so that even the usual camp lire jest and badinage was fore- 

 gone. At last Old George drawled out : 



" Hank, how der yer account for it?" 

 " Don't know, George. Let's all smoke a little cigarette, 

 and Petee, you give us the science of it." 



" Well, the science of it is very plain. We are above the 

 timber and on the snow line. Take Venus there for instance, 

 that very bright star : if you were looking at her from the 

 plains your vision would have to pierce ten thousand feet of 

 air, but here you are looking at her from that altitude and 

 through a rarified atmosphere that you can scarcely breathe 

 in. Well, you all saw how it was to-day. There is Hank, 

 the strongest of us, could not swing a pick for five minutes 

 at a time; the air is so fine and rare that you loose breath, and 

 of course it is easy for the eye to penetrate it. How unnatur- 

 ally bright they seem. What would the dwellers below say 

 if they could look at the beauty of the heavens as we are see- 

 ing them to-night ? I doubt whether Ingersol, with all his 

 infidelity, could stand on these rocky heights, look at those 

 glittering beautiful worlds and deny the existence of a God. 

 There is some great power, some divine hand guiding them. 

 Take for instance the moon : see she is just peeping up from 



behind that peak, her orbit Hello I what is the row now ? 



Here come the pack mules as if they were crazy from eating 

 locoo or as if the devil was at their heels I What's up ?" 



Old George, after peering through the darkness, stepped 

 toward the tent, with the remark : "Git yer rifles, it's varmint. 

 Come away from the fire inter the dark." 



The three pack mules and little Jock the donkey, stood 

 near the tent, showing every sign of terror. Harry remarked: 

 "There is something wrong, for there is that box of crack- 

 ers open and little Jock is too badly scared to steal them. 

 We are on the old Ute reservation and I would not be sur- 

 prised if some of them good boys were around. But what 

 would an Indian want up here?'' 



Just then there was a sharp clatter of hoofs over the rocks, 

 the mules dashed into the darkness, and a huge shambling 

 mass of hair approached the cracker box and upset it. No ' 

 body fired ; it was not from fear, but sheer astonishment. In 

 another instant Old George's ride cracked, bruin gave a sharp 

 growl of pain, stood up on his hind legs only to recieve four 

 more balls and fall over the pile of crackers, changing the 

 color, giving them a new flavor and scattering them to the 

 four winds in his death agony. George, sticking a new shell 

 into his Sharps, walked up to the bear, growling out ; 



" Well, I'm darn'd it ever I seed such importance in all my 

 long life in these yer rock piles, a bar coming within a hun- 

 dred feet of a camp fire. Mule Ear Bill used ter tell about 

 how he went ter bed one night and saw er shadder come 

 atween his fire and his tent, and when he looked out a big 

 grizzly war a setten thar warrain' hisself . He didn't shoot,' out 

 er respect to the bar's feelings, and if he bed had champagne 

 he would hev asked him in ter take a drink ; but he hed 

 nothin 'except a bottle of Mexican Prank's whisky, and he 

 didn't like ter offer that kind of stuff ter a bar, for it was 

 rifle, and the bar might hev thought he was wouuded in the 

 neck, and then yer know he would hev been dangerous. I 

 allers thought Mule Ear Bill was a liar when he told that 

 story, but I believe him now. That pesky varmint war after 

 that donkey colt, and that drew him outer the crackers, and 

 a nice mess he has made of them ; but, boys, he hez got a 

 mate around here somewhar, and to-morrow we will hev a bar 

 hunt. Them ere mules will take care of themselves and, if that 

 colt gets chawed up its no loss, he steals everything about 

 the camp, sugar, flour, green coffee, and yesterday be stole 

 all the dried apples. I was a hopin' they would swell up 

 and bust him like the government mule what ate a buBhel, but 

 they didn't ; he grunted, yanked his back up and down, rolled 

 around and blowed off enough wind to run a blacksmith shop 

 or .Congress. Harry, sing that song about holdin' out yer 

 hand to a brother that's down, and we'll turn in." 



And Harry's splendid tenor voice ringing out through the 

 clear air was our lullaby, and the next morning we threw off 

 our blankets on hearing the same voice singing 



" Morn amidst the mountains." 

 A hearty breakfast of fresh bear steak, corn dodgers and 

 coffee, and we were ready for the hunt. Hank, Harry and 

 Cooper took the gulch, whilst George and I climbed the spur, 

 intending to go down into the valley. We had proceeded 

 but a short distance when George slopped his dissertation 

 upon the proper way to attack Ursa horribillis, or his nearly 

 as dangerous cotiBin the cinnamon, and said : 



"Petee, we will strike the lake, and if one ou us had a 

 shot gnu we'd get er goose or bunch of ducks for a change 

 from buck rump. No use er wasting ball-cartridges and shoot- 

 ing just one at a time." Knowing that I was the one meant to 

 have the shot-gun, 1 started buck and exchanged my Sharps 

 for what we called Harry's bible— his No. 10 Parker. My 

 old sporting friend Foist used to say that when I pulled the 

 triger of my Utile English gun I shut my eys. Well, those 

 were tender-foot days, and I had no faith in the gun ; but 

 when I bring a Parker to my shoulder 1 know there is a 

 breech behind the shell. Crossing the spur we came in sight 

 of the valley, a Rocky mountain park five miles long and half 

 as wide— one of nature's beauty Bpote— surrounded on all 

 sides by granite walla and towering peaks. The lake gleamed 

 like silver in the sunshine, while three or four mountain 



