Читать книгу Black Beetles in Amber - Ambrose Bierce - Страница 10

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Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon,

Casting to South his eye across the bourne

Of his dominion (where the Palmiped,

With leathers 'twixt his toes, paddles his marsh,

Amphibious) saw a rising cloud of hats,

And heard a faint, far sound of distant cheers

Below the swell of the horizon. "Lo,"

Cried one, "the President! the President!"

All footed webwise then took up the word—

The hill tribes and the tribes lacustrine and

The folk riparian and littoral,

Cried with one voice: "The President! He comes!"

And some there were who flung their headgear up

In emulation of the Southern mob;

While some, more soberly disposed, stood still

And silently had fits; and others made

Such reverent genuflexions as they could,

Having that climate in their bones. Then spake

The Court Dunce, humbly, as became him: "Sire,

If thou, as heretofore thou hast, wilt deign

To reap advantage of a fool's advice

By action ordered after nature's way,

As in thy people manifest (for still

Stupidity's the only wisdom) thou

Wilt get thee straight unto to the border land

To mark the President's approach with such

Due, decent courtesy as it shall seem

We have in custom the best warrant for."

Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon,

Eyeing the storm of hats which darkened all

The Southern sky, and hearing far hurrahs

Of an exulting people, answered not.

Then some there were who fell upon their knees,

And some upon their Governor, and sought

Each in his way, by blandishment or force,

To gain his action to their end. "Behold,"

They said, "thy brother Governor to South

Met him even at the gateway of his realm,

Crook-kneed, magnetic-handed and agrin,

Backed like a rainbow—all things done in form

Of due observance and respect. Shall we

Alone of all his servitors refuse

Swift welcome to our master and our lord?"

Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon,

Answered them not, but turned his back to them

And as if speaking to himself, the while

He started to retire, said: "He be damned!"

To that High Place o'er Portland's central block,

Where the Recording Angel stands to view

The sinning world, nor thinks to move his feet

Aside and look below, came flocking up

Inferior angels, all aghast, and cried:

"Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon,

Has said, O what an awful word!—too bad

To be by us repeated!" "Yes, I know,"

Said the superior bird—"I heard it too,

And have already booked it. Pray observe."

Splitting the giant tome, whose covers fell

Apart, o'ershadowing to right and left

The Eastern and the Western world, he showed

The newly written entry, black and big,

Upon the credit side of thine account,

Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon.

Y'E FOE TO CATHAYE

O never an oathe sweares he,

And never a pig-taile jerkes;

With a brick-batte he ne lurkes

For to buste y'e crust, perdie,

Of y'e man from over sea,

A-synging as he werkes.

For he knows ful well, y's youth,

A tricke of exceeding worth:

And he plans withouten ruth

A conflagration's birth!