OLD BILL GRAY'S STORY. 
JAMES B. ADAMS. 
The camp fire blazed with a merry light, 
Like a gleaming gem in the breast of night, 
And the group of hunters who sat around 
Caused the hills and valleys to oft resound 
With peals of laughter, as yarn and song 
Fell glibly off from each wagging tongue. 
Far up the gulch from its rocky lair 
The mountain lion, with restless air, — 
Gazed down on the scene so. weirdly 
strange ; 
And far above in the rugged range 
A night owl hooted in weird surprise _ 
As the gleam of the fire met its owlish 
eyes ; 
While a panther crouched in astonished 
way, 
All undecided to run or stay. 
’Twas a picture familiar to Western eyes, 
Yet strange would have seemed under 
Eastern skies. 
“Speakin’ 0’ grizzlies,” said old Bill Gray, 
As gray of hair as he was of name, 
“Speakin’ o’ grizzlies, I want to say 
That I reckon I'd ort to know that same. 
An’ speakin’ o’ tenderfeet, I’ve heerd 
It said they will never hold their ground, 
But’ll act as if summit slightly skeered 
At a hint that a grizzly’s nosin’ ’round. 
But I once was taught at a Eastern school 
Thar’s allus exceptions to every rule. 
Mortimer King was the name ’at he 
Had struck right acrost a little card, 
An’ when he handed the same to me 
I looked at the Easterner purty hard. 
A little bit of a runty chap, 
With glasses sot on his squinty eyes, 
An’ wearin’ a sort of a striped cap, 
An’ britches that fit him around the 
thighs 
Like the skin of a sassage; an’ socks, I 
sw’ar, 
The same as I’ve heerd that wimmen folks 
w’ar. 
He war’ puffin’ away at a cigaroot, 
An’ when he said ’at he’d like to stay 
With me till he’d run on a chance to shoot 
A grizzly, my laughin’ string give way 
An’ | squealed till 1 split my sides; but he 
Never weakened a little, nor cracked a 
smile, 
But said he reckoned ‘at I mout see 
Him hold his own with the animile. 
So I tuk him into my cabin, jes’ 
‘Cause the cuss ’d amuse me, more or less. 
‘Twas fun fur to hear the little cuss 
A leakin’ language ’bout what he’d do 
Ef he tuk a hand in a grizzly muss. 
Why, boys, from a hunter’s point o’ view 
’Twas too ridiculous fur belief. 
But I let him talk to his heart’s content, 
A sort o’ feelin’ he’d come to grief 
An’ hit the trail to the rear, hell-bent 
The fust time we sighted a grizzly b’ar 
A trampin’ around in the hills up th’ar. 
To shorten my story, we started out 
Nex’ day, a nosin’ around fur game, 
An’ Mortimer King jes’ a blowin’ ‘bout 
How keen he war fur to find the same. 
e hadn’t tramped it a mile afore 
We hit a trail that w’ar mighty fresh; 
It follered the gulch a ways, then bore 
To a thicket o’ manzanita bresh, 
An’ that feller’s eyes begun to dance 
When I tol’ him that now was his golden 
chance. 
Afore I knowed it that little cuss 
Duv into the bushes jes’ like a dart, 
An’ in half a second I heerd a fuss 
That made me chilly around the heart. 
That ol’ Winchester o’ his give tongue 
To some lively barks in a spiteful way, 
An’ the howls o’ the wounded grizzly brung 
My heart in my throat like twas th’ar to 
stay. 
By Godfrey, pardners, I jes’ tuk root 
To the ground; couldn’t move either hand 
or foot! 
When I got my senses I hurried in 
Expectin’ to find but a chawed up dude, 
Fur all had become as quiet as sin, 
An’ I ’magined the b’ar was enjoyin’ his 
food. 
But th’ar stood Mortimer, punchin’ at 
A monster b’ar with his girlish foot 
His eyes never givin’ a skeery bat 
> - 
- 
As he puffed away at a cigaroot:; 
An’ [ jes’ collapsed when I heerd him say, 
How much will the bloody critter weigh?” 
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