bread an' meat"!

I felt like shootin' that gol-durn Jim,
Losin' th' game with a stake like that;
Wanted t' up an' lambaste him
Chawin' of meat like a hungry cat:
When, all at onct, sort o' swallerin' hard,
I PERCEIVES JIM EATIN' THAT EXTRA CARD!

"Locoed!" yelled Yankee, quittin' th' game,
Handin' over th' stakes. But Slippery Jim
Hunchin' up of his powerful frame
Giv' a kind of a grin o' hate at him.
"D----n y'r gold!" he says, "Slippery Jim to-night
Will begin t' live like a man born white!"

Now, perhaps you'd say the game warn't square----
An' some might call it a bunko trick;
But if you loved a ga'l an' she stood there,
Wouldn't y' swap souls with old Nick
Rather'n let her go t' Yankee Pete
An' play her game on Bonanza street?

NO, TH' STORY AIN'T NEVER BIN TOLD AFORE. I SAW IT FINISHED--SAW IT
BEGAN. SAW IT PLAY'D OUT ON TH' DANCE-HALL FLOOR. IT'S BETWIXT US, MAN
T' MAN!

HEROES

If ye run up ag'in Carnegie, I'd kind o' thankful be
If he gets a-talkin' of heroes, you'd ring in Sandy McPhee.

Now, Mac don't want no medals--he ain't th' braggin' set;
But what he done back in eighty-one, he's livin' t' tell; you bet!

We was trekin' th' trail t' Forty-Mile; sleepin' in snow-b'ilt caves,
An' the great White Trail we hoofed it on was milestoned jest by graves.

Mac shot on ahead with his dog--itchin' t' make his pile;
Carried his grub-stake on his back. Got there? I should smile!

But th' blizzard struck him; th'r he was, him an' his dog alone----
A week passed by--then his grub give out; but he never made no moan.

His husky died an' he e't his guts; tho't his brain 'ud go----
Then he 'member'd his wife an' kids at home. Who'd hoe their row?

Both feet fruz cle'r int' th' bone! Says he "Fac's is fac's";--
Gangrene sot in--black t' th' knees. Then he ups an' eyes his axe:--

"I ain't," says he, "no great M.D., but I kinder calcalate
To meet this here e-mergency as was sent b' a unkind Fate."

So he humped hisself up ag'in a rock in a little bunch o' trees,
A couple o' hacks with that there axe, an' off went his laigs at
th' knees!

And he stumped it int' Forty-Mile! What's that? It ain't true?
It's hard t' b'leeve, I kin onderstand, b' a white-livered skunk