SIMON RAND.
No poet, however gifted, can get along without his muse, any better than a navigator can without his compass. If the goddess is not at his elbow, the lyre hangs mute upon the wall, and the pen corrodes in the ink. Then what can the poor limited rhymer do without a muse to inspire him? As mine is at present leaning over the back of my chair in a very encouraging manner, I will strike my harp and lay the following heart-rending tale before the world in verse.
First Gossip—“Was she false?”
Second Gossip—“Ay, false as her teeth.”
—Old Volume.
In Siskiyou, a tanner lived,
Whose name was Simon Rand;
He loved the miller’s daughter, fair
Annetta Hildebrand.
The maiden loved the tanner, too,
(At least the maid so said,)
And she the happy day had named
The parson would them wed.
The golden day-dreams lengthened as
The season shorter grew,
And Cupid slung his bow across
His shoulder, and withdrew.
A golden pointed arrow lay
Imbedded in each heart;
The little god conjectured they
Could never live apart.
But fire will test the iron safe,
And powder prove the mine,
And tempests try the ship at sea,
The woodman’s axe the pine;
And gold will sound the human heart,
The maiden’s love it tries;
It is the plummet weight that proves
How deep affection lies.
One Jacob Towle, a rival, came
To darken Simon’s days;
His clothes were fine, his purse a mine,
He drove a span of bays!
The fair Annetta was his mark;
He deftly played his hand;
He turned her giddy head around,
And love, from Simon Rand.
The tanner saw his dove prove daw,
And scarce believed his eyes;
But change was there, in look and air,
And in her curt replies.
He called one night, in hopes he might
Back his affianced win;
Word came by “sis” (an old game this),
“Annetta was not in.”
But ah! how keen are lovers’ eyes
When rivals are around;
A glossy hat hung in the hall;
He reached it with a bound.
“See, my child, a pleasing sight!”
Said he with a ghastly smile;
“For into fraction, into mite,
I’ll smash the villain’s tile.”
He seized it, and he squeezed it, too,
He bowled it on the floor,
He thumped it, and he jumped it, and
He kicked it through the door.
So through the gate he then escaped,
And he was heard to say,
“By all the hides that I have scraped
With life I’ll make away.”
REVENGE IS SWEET.
Next morning he was missing, and
The neighbors thought it queer:
For he at work was ever found
Throughout the busy year.
Noon came, but brought not Simon back;
And then their wonder grew
Into a fear, that he had done
What he had sworn to do.
A search was instituted, and
All work was at a stand,
For weak and stout alike turned out
To search for Simon Rand.
Across the mill-pond and the flume,
The grappling drag they drew,
They scanned the trees and probed the wells
The little village through.
But tale or tidings none they found;
So all the search gave o’er,
And sat them down to talk and smoke,
Around the tavern door.
When teamster Joe picked up a hoe
That by his side was laid,
And turning round to farmer Pound,
He slapped his thigh and said,
“I’ll stake my strongest pair of mules
Against Moll Benson’s cat,
That Simon Rand, the missing man,
Lies dead in his own vat!”
No face was there, beard-hid or bare,
Light, tawny-hue, or dark,
But on the instant plainly showed
The weight of that remark.
To feet they sprung, both old and young,
And down the shortest road,
By Silly’s still and Burrill’s mill,
To Simon’s shop they strode.
THE EXPLORING PARTY.
One pace in front leaned Parson Lunt,
Who let his dinner stand,
And joined the throng that surged along
In search of Simon Rand.
Across his shoulder, stooped with age,
He poised his garden rake,
And those had need to urge their speed
Who followed in his wake.
Then side and side, with equal stride,
Pressed Joe and Jasper Lane;
Next Elder Chase kept even pace
With stout old Sidney Vane.
Then two and two, and three and three,
And sometimes four abreast,
With hoes and hooks, and thoughtful looks,
Come clattering on the rest.
The place was gained, all eyes were strained
Upon the brimming vat;
But not an eye its depths could spy,
Or pierce its scum of fat.
“A fearful place,” sighed Elder Chase,
As down he dipped his pole;
“No love or woe could make him throw
Himself in such a hole.
A man would choose a hempen noose,
A pistol, drug, or knife,
If he designed through troubled mind
To make away with life.”
A silent group they kneel and stoop,
And shove their poles around,
Now left, now right, till all affright
One cried, “I’ve something found!
It’s him I know, I must let go!
I dare not see his face
When coming from the depths below;
Will some one take my place?”
Then Parson Lunt stepped to the front,
And clasped his hands in prayer;
And cried, “We thank thee for his dust,
His soul in mercy spare.”
Then took the pole from Selby’s hand,
Who quickly sought the rear,
Yet dodged and peeped his best to see
If Rand indeed was there.
Up rose the heavy burdened hook;
“That’s him!” a dozen cried;
But when they took a second look
It proved a brindled hide!
Then impious Brown, the village clown,
Turned from that vat aside,
And laughed until the tears ran down
His cheeks as though he cried.
Still round he went, with body bent,
His face one endless grin,
Because the Parson praised the Lord,
Then raised—the heifer’s skin!
The tools once more sink as before,
To scrape the bottom slow:
Another mass—they strike—and pass,
It rolls along below!
“I have him now!” cried Dennis Howe,
The blacksmith’s helping man;
While down his face, in rapid race,
The perspiration ran.
With mighty grip, and backward tip,
Stout Dennis manned the pole,
Which bent as though ’twould snap and go,
And Howe would backwards roll.
UP HE COMES.
And woe is me, that tanner man,
And woe is me, that maid!
And woe is me, that staring group
Around that vat, afraid.
The hold was good, the pole has stood,
And up the hook has drawn
The poor discarded Simon Rand,
Dead as a pickled prawn!
And lo! a great cast-iron weight
Fast to one leg was tied;
Which, as he rose did oscillate,
And swing from side to side.
Upon a door his form they bore
Back slowly through the town,
And still behind them left a trail
Where dripped the water down.
For every step fresh showers drew
Down from that litter bare,
From garments soaked quite through and through,
From mouth and nose and hair.
’Twere sad to tell of funeral show
That in that town was seen;
Enough to know that Simon low
Lies where the grass is green.
Annetta, now, is Mrs. Towle,
And servants on her wait;
And dogs with uninviting growl
Drive beggars from her gate.
And Simon’s shop has gone to wreck,
No bark is needed now,
No more before the greasy door
Lie horns of ox or cow!
UNPROMISING OUTLOOK.
But on the anniversary
Of that distressful night,
The superstitious people say—
Within it burns a light.
And there the tanner may be seen
His thin arms shining bare,
Bent o’er the bench, as though at work
Fast scraping off the hair!
Anon, slow rising from his toil
A woeful sigh he gives,
And gazes long towards the hill,
Where false Annetta lives.
Then turning round he gives a bound,
As when he crushed the hat,
And fastening to his leg a weight
He leaps into the vat!
And with him goes the wondrous light
That shed its ghostly ray;
And dismal darkness wraps the place
Until the dawn of day.