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Eugene Field - Our Lady of the MineEugene Field - Our Lady of the Mine
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The Blue Horizon wuz a mine us fellers all thought well uv, And there befell the episode I now perpose to tell uv; `T wuz in the year uv sixty-nine,—somewhere along in summer,— There hove in sight one afternoon a new and curious comer; His name wuz Silas Pettibone,—a` artist by perfession,— With a kit of tools and a big mustache and a pipe in his possession. He told us, by our leave, he `d kind uv like to make some sketches Uv the snowy peaks, `nd the foamin` crick, `nd the distant mountain         stretches; "You`re welkim, sir," sez we, although this scenery dodge seemed to us A waste uv time where scenery wuz already sooper-floo-us. All through the summer Pettibone kep` busy at his sketchin`,— At daybreak off for Eagle Pass, and home at nightfall, fetchin` That everlastin` book uv his with spider-lines all through it; Three-Fingered Hoover used to say there warn`t no meanin` to it. "Gol durn a man," sez he to him, "whose shif`less hand is sot at A-drawin` hills that`s full uv quartz that`s pinin` to be got at!" "Go on," sez Pettibone, "go on, if joshin` gratifies ye; But one uv these fine times I`ll show ye sumthin` will surprise ye!" The which remark led us to think—although he didn`t say it— That Pettibone wuz owin` us a gredge `nd meant to pay it. One evenin` as we sat around the Restauraw de Casey, A-singin` songs `nd tellin` yarns the which wuz sumwhat racy, In come that feller Pettibone, `nd sez, "With your permission, I`d like to put a picture I have made on exhibition." He sot the picture on the bar `nd drew aside its curtain, Sayin`, "I reckon you`ll allow as how that`s art, f`r certain!" And then we looked, with jaws agape, but nary word wuz spoken, And f`r a likely spell the charm uv silence wuz unbroken— Till presently, as in a dream, remarked Three-Fingered Hoover: "Onless I am mistaken, this is Pettibone`s shef doover!" It wuz a face—a human face—a woman`s, fair `nd tender— Sot gracefully upon a neck white as a swan`s, and slender; The hair wuz kind uv sunny, `nd the eyes wuz sort uv dreamy, The mouth wuz half a-smilin`, `nd the cheeks wuz soft `nd creamy; It seemed like she wuz lookin` off into the west out yonder, And seemed like, while she looked, we saw her eyes grow softer, fonder,— Like, lookin` off into the west, where mountain mists wuz fallin`, She saw the face she longed to see and heerd his voice a-callin`; "Hooray!" we cried,—"a woman in the camp uv Blue Horizon! Step right up, Colonel Pettibone, `nd nominate your pizen!" A curious situation,—one deservin` uv your pity,— No human, livin`, female thing this side of Denver City! But jest a lot uv husky men that lived on sand `nd bitters,— Do you wonder that that woman`s face consoled the lonesome critters? And not a one but what it served in some way to remind him Of a mother or a sister or a sweetheart left behind him; And some looked back on happier days, and saw the old-time faces And heerd the dear familiar sounds in old familiar places,— A gracious touch of home. "Look here," sez Hoover, "ever`body Quit thinkin` `nd perceed at oncet to name his favorite toddy!" It wuzn`t long afore the news had spread the country over, And miners come a-flockin` in like honey-bees to clover; It kind uv did `em good, they said, to feast their hungry eyes on That picture uv Our Lady in the camp uv Blue Horizon. But one mean cuss from Nigger Crick passed criticisms on `er,— Leastwise we overheerd him call her Pettibone`s madonner, The which we did not take to be respectful to a lady, So we hung him in a quiet spot that wuz cool `nd dry `nd shady; Which same might not have been good law, but it wuz the right manoeuvre To give the critics due respect for Pettibone`s shef doover. Gone is the camp,—yes, years ago the Blue Horizon busted, And every mother`s son uv us got up one day `nd dusted, While Pettibone perceeded East with wealth in his possession, And went to Yurrup, as I heerd, to study his perfession; So, like as not, you`ll find him now a-paintin` heads `nd faces At Venus, Billy Florence, and the like I-talyun places. But no sech face he`ll paint again as at old Blue Horizon, For I`ll allow no sweeter face no human soul sot eyes on; And when the critics talk so grand uv Paris `nd the Loover, I say, "Oh, but you orter seen the Pettibone shef doover!"
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