IN EXILE. 



261 



hie away. As they were about to separate 

 Jacob said, 



' 'Sind Sie weg von ihrem Wohnort; 

 oder, im Fall sie keine Familie habcn (tind 

 es weare vieleicht besser wenn sie keine 

 haben) ist ihr Kosthaus nahe bei?' 



" 'Nein,' said the carp, 'gcgenwaertig bin 

 ich Wittwer. Ich streife herum wo es mir 

 gefaellt aber meine Haupt mahlzeit nehme 

 ich bei Butchertown eine kurze strecke 

 oberhalb.' " 



"Say, Johnson," said Dobbs, "can't you 

 help us out with a translation of that 

 lingo?" 



"Well," explained the story teller, "Jacob 

 asked the fish if he were far away from 

 where he lived. In case he had no family, 

 thinking it for the best if he had none, was 

 the boarding house near, where he put up ? 



To which the fish replied that he was a 

 widower, browsing around almost any- 

 where, but taking his principal meals off 

 Butchertown, a short distance up the river. 



"As Jacob Zim trudged homeward he 

 was overheard to say that he was glad he 

 could neffer understant how to boil vater, 

 and he would neffermore again in his life- 

 times eat some boiled fish again alreatty." 



"Where is your friend now?" inquired 

 Hobbs. 



"Well, that is my secret ; but between 

 ourselves, for she must not know, he wrote 

 me from Cape Nome to say that while he 

 was happier, and could kick gold out of 

 the sands with 'he toe of his boot, yet he 

 found women there, and he should have 

 to move still farther away from that sex 

 of civilization." 



IN EXILE. 



WARREN ADAMS. 



In the eager world of fancy, which this 

 moment seems so real 

 That sights and sounds of city fade and 

 pale, 

 I can hear the blue grouse calling, I can 

 hear the bull elk squeal ; 

 I am weary, oh, so weary, for the trail ! 



Hear the creak of straining pack ropes ; 

 hear the patter of the hoofs, 

 Raising dust as chaff flies upward from 

 the flail; 

 Feel the open heat of noonday; feel the 

 cool of canvas roofs; 

 I am weary, oh, so weary, for the trail ! 



There are trout below the riffle, there are 

 whitefish close beside, 

 And well I know the flies that most 

 avail 

 To toll the great six-pounders from the 

 depths where they abide. 

 I am weary, oh, so weary, for the trail ! 



See the level lines of sagebrush, smell its 

 pleasant, bitter breath, 

 As it empties its aroma on the gale; 

 See the timid, saucy pronghorns — soon 

 we'll flag them to their death. 

 I am weary, oh, so weary, for the trail! 



Let me realize the fancy, let me make the 

 dream come true 

 By the necromantic power of stage and 

 rail ; 

 Let me turn from humans Godward — it's 

 the only thing to do 

 When a man has grown heart-weary for 

 the trail. 



