Classic Poem

( AS TOLD AT DINNER )

No, sir; no turkey for me, sir. But soft, place it there,
Lest friends may make question and strangers may stare.
Ah, the thought of that hunt in the canon, the blood —
Nay, gently, please, gently! You open a flood
Of memories, memories melting me so
That I rise in my place and — excuse me — I go.
No? You must have the story? And you, lady fair?
And you, and you all? Why, it's blood and despair;
And 'twere not kind in me, not manly or wise
To bring tears at such time to such beautiful eyes.

I remember me now the last time I told
This story a Persian in diamonds and gold
Sat next to good Gladstone, there was Wales to the right,
Then a Duke, then an Earl, and such ladies in white!
But I stopped, sudden stopped, lest the story might start
The blood freezing back to each feminine heart.
But they all said, " The story! " just as you all have said,
And the great Persian monarch he nodded his head
Till his diamond-decked feathers fell, glittered and rose,
Then nodded almost to his Ishmaelite nose.

The story! Ah, pardon! 'Twas high Christmas tide
And just beef and beans; yet the land, far and wide,
Was alive with such turkeys of silver and gold,
As never men born to the north may behold.
And Apaches? Aye, Apaches, and they took this game
In a pen, tolled it in. Might not we do the same?
So two of us started, strewing corn, Indian corn,
Tow'rd a great granite gorge with the first flush of morn;
Started gay, laughing back from the broad mesa's breast,
At the bravest of men, who but warned for the best.

We built a great pen from the sweet cedar wood
Tumbled down from a crown where the sentry stars stood.
Scarce done, when the turkeys in line — such a sight!
Picking corn from the sand, russet gold, silver white,
And so fat that they scarcely could waddle or hobble.
And 'twas " Queek, tukee, queek, " and 'twas, " gobble and gobble! "
And their great, full crops they did wabble and wabble
As their bright, high heads they did bob, bow and bobble,
Down, up, through the trench, crowding up in the pen.
Now, quick, block the trench! Then the mules and the men!

Springing forth from our cove, guns leaned to a rock,
How we laughed! What a feast! We had got the whole flock.
How we worked till the trench was all blocked close and tight,
For we hungered, and, too, the near coming of night,
Then the thought of our welcome. The news? We could hear
Already, we fancied, the great hearty cheer
As we rushed into camp and exultingly told
Of the mule loads of turkeys in silver and gold.
Then we turned for our guns. Our guns? In their place
Ten Apaches stood there, and five guns in each face.

And we stood! we stood straight and stood strong, track solid to track.
What, turn, try to fly and be shot in the back?
No! We threw hats in the air. We should not need them more.
And yelled! Yelled as never yelled man or Comanche before.
We dared them, defied them, right there in their lair.
Why, we leaned to their guns in our splendid despair.
What! spared us for bravery, because we dared death?
You know the tale? Tell it, and spare me my breath.
No, sir. They killed us, killed us both, there and then,
And then nailed our scalps to that turkey pen.