Artemis in Sierra

By Bret Harte (Francis)

Dramatis Person Poet. Philosopher. Jones of Mariposa. Poet Halt! Here we are. Now wheel your mare a trifle Just where you stand; then doff your hat and swear Never yet was scene you might cover with your rifle Half as complete or as marvelously fair. Philosopher Dropped from Olympus or lifted out of Tempe, Swung like a censer betwixt the earth and sky! He who in Greece sang of flocks and flax and hemp, he Here might recall them six thousand feet on high! Poet Well you may say so. The clamor of the river, Hum of base toil, and mans ignoble strife, Halt far below, where the stifling sunbeams quiver, But never climb to this purer, higher life! Not to this glade, where Jones of Mariposa, Simple and meek as his flocks were looking at, Tends his soft charge; nor where his daughter Rosa (A shot.) Hallo! Whats that? Philosopher A something thro my hat Bullet, I think. You were speaking of his daughter? Poet Yes; but your hat you were moving through the leaves; Likely he thought it some eagle bent on slaughter. Lightly he shoots (A second shot.) Philosopher As one readily perceives. Still, he improves! This time your hat has got it, Quite near the band! Eh? Oh, just as you please Stop, or go on. Poet Perhaps wed better trot it Down through the hollow, and up among the trees. Both Trot, trot, trot, where the bullets cannot follow; Trot down and up again among the laurel trees. Philosopher Thanks, that is better; now of this shot-dispensing Jones and his girl you were saying Poet Well, you see I hang it all! Oh! whats the use of fencing! Sir, I confess it! these shots were meant for me. Philosopher Are you mad! Poet God knows, I shouldnt wonder! I love this coy nymph, who, coldly as yon peak Shines on the river it feeds, yet keeps asunder Long have I worshiped, but never dared to speak. Till she, no doubt, her love no longer hiding, Waked by some chance word her fathers jealousy; Slips her disdain as an avalanche down gliding Sweeps flocks and kin away to clear a path for me. Hence his attack. Philosopher I see. What I admire Chiefly, I think, in your idyl, so to speak, Is the cool modesty that checks your youthful fire, Absence of self-love and abstinence of cheek! Still, I might mention, Ive met the gentle Rosa, Danced with her thrice, to her fathers jealous dread; And, it is possible, shes happened to disclose a Ahem! You can fancy why he shoots at me instead. Poet You? Philosopher Me. But kindly take your hand from your revolver, I am not choleric but accidents may chance. And heres the father, who alone can be the solver Of this twin riddle of the hat and the romance. [Enter Jones of Mariposa.] Poet Speak, shepherd mine! Philosopher Hail! Time-and-cartridge waster, Aimless exploder of theories and skill! Whom do you shoot? Jones of Mariposa Well, shootin aint my taste, or Ef I shoot anything I only shoot to kill. That aint whats up. I only kem to tell ye Sportin or courtin trot homeward for your life! Gals will be gals, and praps its just ez well ye Larned there was one had no wish to be a wife. Poet What? Philosopher Is this true? Jones of Mariposa I reckon it looks like it. She saw ye comin. My gun was standin by; She made a grab, and fore I up could strike it, Blazed at ye both! The critter is so shy! Poet Who? Jones of Mariposa My darter! Philosopher Rosa? Jones of Mariposa Same! Good-by!