THE ENOCH OF CALAVERAS.

"Well, dog my cats! Say, stranger, You must have travelled far! Just flood your lower level And light a fresh cigar. Don't tell me in this weather! You hoofed it all the way? Well, slice my liver lengthwise! Why, stranger, what's to pay? "Huntin' yer wife, you tell me: Well, now dog-gone my skin! She thought you dead and buried And then bestowed her tin Upon another fellow! Just put it here, old pard! Some fellows strike the soft things, But you have hit it hard. "I'm right onto your feelin's, I know how it would be, If my own shrub slopped over And got away from me. Say, stranger; that old sage hen, That's cookin' thar inside, Is warranted the finest wool, And just a square yard wide. "I wouldn't hurt yer, pardner, But I tell you, no man Was ever blessed as I am With that old pelican. It's goin' on some two year Since she was j'ined to me, She was a widder prior, Her name was Sophy Lee— "Good God! Old man, what's happened? Her? She? Is that the one? That's her? Your wife, you tell me? Now reach down fer yer gun, I never injured no man, And no man me, but squealed, And any one who takes her Must do it d—d well heeled! "Listen? Surely. Certainly I'll let you look at her. Peek through the door, she's in thar, Is that your furnitur'? Speak, man, quick! You're mistaken! No! Yours! You recognize My wife, your wife the same one? The man who says so, lies! "Don't mind what I say, pardner, I'm not much on the gush, But this thing comes down on me Like fours upon a flush. If that's your wife—hold—steady! That bottle. Now, my coat, She'll think me dead as you were. My pipe. Thar. I'm afloat. "But let me leave a message. No; tell her that I died, No, no; not that way, either, Just tell her that I cried. It don't rain much. Now, pardner, Be to her what I've been. Or by the God that hates you, You'll see me back again!" F. Bret Harte.