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FRONTIER BALLADS
Well, we on the "George" had tumbled out —
The roar o' the jam was wild — When we heerd a cry through the shriekin' night, An' there on the p'int, in the pale moonlight, A-wavin' an' yellin' with all her might,
Stood Buck Slack's youngest child.
An' we knowed, without darin' to say the word, They was tripped fer the Great Unknown,
Fer the gorge had slapped the current round
An' cut 'em off from the higher ground,
An' the hand that could save 'em from bein' drowned Was the hand of God alone.
Then all at oncet we heerd a yell
An', down 'cross the willow bank, A-layin' a course that was skeercely snug, Came Jakey Dale with his whiskey jug, As drunk as the mate of a log-raft tug,
An' a-swearin' somethin' rank.
"You rust-chawed fragments o' junk," sez he, "Now what do you think you've found?
A-standin' 'round on this old bilge tank
Like a bunch o' frogs on a floatin' plank;
Be ye lookin' fer gold in yon cut-bank?" An' then he heerd that sound.
As quick as the jump of a piston-rod
He was over the wheel-box guard, An' before we could figger on stoppin' him He had slashed the falls from the long-boat's rim An' was out past the slush o' the channel's brim,
A-pullin' quick an' hard.
He sidled his tub through that rippin' flume
While we stood on the "George" an' swore. The boy was loony with raw-corn gin, But he reckoned his course to the width of a pin, Ran straight to the eddy an' clawed her in, An' staggered himself ashore. |
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