The Babes in the Woods

Something characteristic, eh?     Humph! I reckon you mean by that     Something that happened in our way,     Here at the crossin of Big Pine Flat.     Times arent now as they used to be,     When gold was flush and the boys were frisky,     And a man would pull out his battery     For anything maybe the price of whiskey.     Nothing of that sort, eh? Thats strange!     Why, I thought you might be diverted     Hearing how Jones of Red Rock Range     Drawed his hint to the unconverted,     And saying, Whar will you have it? shot     Cherokee Bob at the last debating!     What was the question I forgot,     But Jones didnt like Bobs way of stating.     Nothing of that kind, eh? You mean     Something milder? Lets see! O Joe!     Tell to the stranger that little scene     Out of the Babes in the Woods. You know,     Babes was the name that we gave em, sir,     Two lean lads in their teens, and greener     Than even the belt of spruce and fir     Where they built their nest, and each day grew leaner.     No one knew where they came from. None     Cared to ask if they had a mother.     Runaway schoolboys, maybe. One     Tall and dark as a spruce; the other     Blue and gold in the eyes and hair,     Soft and low in his speech, but rarely     Talking with us; and we didnt care     To get at their secret at all unfairly.     For they were so quiet, so sad and shy,     Content to trust each other solely,     That somehow wed always shut one eye,     And never seem to observe them wholly     As they passed to their work. Twas a worn-out claim,     And it paid them grub. They could live without it,     For the boys had a way of leaving game     In their tent, and forgetting all about it.     Yet no one asked for their secret. Dumb     It lay in their big eyes heavy hollows.     It was understood that no one should come     To their tent unawares, save the bees and swallows.     So they lived alone. Until one warm night     I was sitting here at the tent-door, so, sir!     When out of the sunsets rosy light     Up rose the Sheriff of Mariposa.     I knew at once there was something wrong,     For his hand and his voice shook just a little,     And there isnt much you can fetch along     To make the sinews of Jack Hill brittle.     Go warn the Babes! he whispered, hoarse;     Tell them Im coming to get and scurry;     For Ive got a story thats bad, and worse,     Ive got a warrant: G-d d n it, hurry!     Too late! they had seen him cross the hill;     I ran to their tent and found them lying     Dead in each others arms, and still     Clasping the drug they had taken flying.     And there lay their secret cold and bare,     Their life, their trial the old, old story!     For the sweet blue eyes and the golden hair     Was a womans shame and a womans glory.     Who were they? Ask no more, or ask     The sun that visits their grave so lightly;     Ask of the whispering reeds, or task     The mourning crickets that chirrup nightly.     All of their life but its love forgot,     Everything tender and soft and mystic,     These are our Babes in the Woods, youve got,     Well human nature thats characteristic.