Фрэнсис Брет Гарт (Francis Bret Harte)

Dow’s Flat

     (1856)

Dow’s Flat. That’s its name;
  And I reckon that you
Are a stranger? The same?
  Well, I thought it was true,--
For thar isn’t a man on the river as can’t spot the place at first
    view.

It was called after Dow,--
  Which the same was an ass,--
And as to the how
  Thet the thing kem to pass,--
Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here in the
    grass.

You see this ’yer Dow
  Hed the worst kind of luck;
He slipped up somehow
  On each thing thet he struck.
Why, ef he’d a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing’d get up
    and buck.

He mined on the bar
  Till he couldn’t pay rates;
He was smashed by a car
  When he tunneled with Bates;
And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five kids from
    the States.

It was rough,--mighty rough;
  But the boys they stood by,
And they brought him the stuff
  For a house, on the sly;
And the old woman,--well, she did washing, and took on when no one
    was nigh.

But this ’yer luck of Dow’s
  Was so powerful mean
That the spring near his house
  Dried right up on the green;
And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen.

Then the bar petered out,
  And the boys wouldn’t stay;
And the chills got about,
  And his wife fell away;
But Dow in his well kept a peggin’ in his usual ridikilous way.

One day,--it was June,
  And a year ago, jest--
This Dow kem at noon
  To his work like the rest,
With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and derringer hid in his
    breast.

He goes to the well,
  And he stands on the brink,
And stops for a spell
  Jest to listen and think:
For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir!), you see, kinder made
    the cuss blink.

His two ragged gals
  In the gulch were at play,
And a gownd that was Sal’s
  Kinder flapped on a bay:
Not much for a man to be leavin’, but his all,--as I’ve heer’d the
    folks say.

And--That’s a peart hoss
  Thet you’ve got,--ain’t it now?
What might be her cost?
  Eh?  Oh!--Well, then, Dow--
Let’s see,--well, that forty-foot grave wasn’t his, sir, that day,
    anyhow.

For a blow of his pick
  Sorter caved in the side,
And he looked and turned sick,
  Then he trembled and cried.
For you see the dern cuss had struck--”Water?”--Beg your parding,
    young man,--there you lied!

It was GOLD,--in the quartz,
  And it ran all alike;
And I reckon five oughts
  Was the worth of that strike;
And that house with the coopilow’s his’n,--which the same isn’t bad
    for a Pike.

Thet’s why it’s Dow’s Flat;
  And the thing of it is
That he kinder got that
  Through sheer contrairiness:
For ’twas WATER the derned cuss was seekin’, and his luck made him
    certain to miss.

Thet’s so!  Thar’s your way,
  To the left of yon tree;
But--a--look h’yur, say?
  Won’t you come up to tea?
No?  Well, then the next time you’re passin’; and ask after Dow,--
    and thet’s ME.

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