wo y 
 
 
 
 .^'\ 
 
» c^^v'^Vv.^,*' . O 
 
 ^oV" 
 
 1^ .'^y?^^ -^ 
 
 
 "^^^.^ 
 
 • ^^ " O « ' , V^ 
 
 4 o 
 
 
 //A o v/". t^ 
 
 
 
 sty ^'n^f ^ 
 
 
 v-^^ 
 
 ^^<i- 
 
 
 
 4 O 
 
 
 4 o 
 
 ° "O ^•?> 
 
 
 
 
 aV-^^. 
 
 c'^^. 
 
19 2- 
 
 j^j^^LfSiys of 
 CKinato'wn 
 
 Sy GEORCC MACDONALD MAJOR 
 
Lays of Chinatown 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD MAJOR 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE LLOYD PRESS 
 
 William A. McIntire 
 
 26 East 22d Street 
 
 1902 
 
Copyright 1899-1902. 
 
 CONGRESS, 
 
 T^flO CoPlbS RtOBIVED 
 
 MOV. 2? TOfi^ 
 
 CLASWlCX'XXc. No. 
 COPY 8. 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Mr. Chuck Connors' Toast to the Victor of San Juan. 
 
 Steve Brodie, Esq., Solus — "De Bowery." 
 
 The Dying Gladiator. 
 
 Mr. Chuck Connors Sings "De Push at Coney Islau'." 
 
 Chuck Dines at Dennett's. 
 
 Speech of the Leader of the Insurrection in Miss Brown's Class. 
 
 A Letter from a Resident of the Bowery, the "Black Sheep" of a 
 Prominent Family, to his Brother at the Waldorf-Astoria. 
 
 McPherson. 
 
 The Slumming Party. 
 
 Old Joe's Story. 
 
 Flotsam and Jetsam, a Bowery Tragedy. 
 
 Jack and Mary. 
 
 A Chinatown Idyll. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Oh, sweet Cathayan airs released 
 To waft the odors of the East, 
 While sheening silks and jeweled shoes 
 The Orient's further charms transfuse; 
 Of such my radiant childhood dreamed- 
 With such my expectation teemed — 
 So fair, I read, was Chinatown. 
 
 Golden legends of a place, 
 
 Tinkle, silvery bells! 
 Full of romance, full of grace. 
 
 So the sybil tells. 
 
 From sullen skies a cheerless rain 
 That floods the half-choked gutter drain, 
 And houses that for years have stood 
 Ramshackle dens of brick and wood. 
 Worn doors, uncurtained window-panes, 
 And mucky streets and garbage lanes — 
 And this is — this — is Chinatown ! 
 
 Pattering feet of Chinamen, 
 
 Holima, Ching-la; 
 Ribald girls of Chinatown; 
 
 Joss! how foul they are. 
 
Within the ever-swinging door 
 The halls uncarpeted, where pour 
 The pungent, sickening opium fumes 
 From out the poorly furnished rooms, 
 Where spots of gilt and red attest , 
 What dingy finery is the rest — 
 In Chinatown, in Chinatown. 
 
 Raising Cain in Chinatown, 
 
 Drink and dope and toss; 
 Day and night are but a day. 
 
 Not a God, but Joss. 
 
 The Joss, a paint-daubed idol pent. 
 The third floor of a tenement 
 Bedraped with faded silk and gold. 
 Where wrinkled priests their service hold 
 While barbarous drum and banjo's whine 
 Wake thoughts infernal not divine- 
 Within the fane of Chinatown. 
 
 Pictures of pagodas, too; 
 
 Tea-fields stretching down 
 Lumbering junks, and sampan boats — 
 
 This is Chinatown. 
 
 And women old before their time. 
 With faces cursed by drink or crime; 
 From many opened casements peer 
 At huddling Chinamen, who leer 
 From doors of dens where gamblers meet 
 Or dives or corners of the street — 
 In tawdry, slattern Chinatown. 
 
 Calling out to sailor men: 
 ' ' Sailor mokki hi, 
 Fightin' dlunk in Doyers stleet, 
 China gel no li'." 
 
Lays of Chinatown. 
 
hf&ys of Cl^inatoivn 
 
 J 
 MR. CHUCK CONNORS' TOAST TO THE i 
 
 VICTOR OF SAN JUAN. , ^ 
 
 A healt' ter yer, Teddy, . 
 
 A victor already. \ 
 
 De Spaniards before yer don't know yer, old man; j 
 
 De brain an' de vigor 
 
 Dat glow in yer figger, j 
 
 De courage an' brawn in yer jimdandy clan. ^ 
 
 'Twill be a wild meetin', i 
 
 A Kilkenny greetin', i 
 
 Wen ye' re introjuced on de heights of San Juan. \ 
 
 I picter yer, Teddy, 
 
 Yer scarce can stan' steady, 1 
 
 A roused lion balancin' ready ter spring. i 
 
 Ter men of de Don set j 
 
 Ter parry yer onset, i 
 Yer rough broncho busters will not do a t'ing 
 
 But ter shoot an' ter sabre, ! 
 
 Ter club an' belabor i 
 
 Like devils an' madmen to sweep down dere wing. \ 
 
 For, we know yer, Teddy, \ 
 
 W en riled, slightly heady, ; 
 A stone wall er ckevo der frees would not stay 
 
 De spur of a trocha 
 
 Would be but a joke — a ; 
 
 Mere burr ter a mustang ter prick on ter fray. j 
 
I^ a y s of CHinatoMrn 
 
 Wow! Nuttin' could curb yer, 
 Sidestep er disturb yer. 
 "Ter hell wid Spain's lobsters," I fancy yer say. 
 
 Up hill dashes Teddy. 
 
 De bullets of lead he 
 Despises as paper wads trun widout force; 
 
 De shells dat burst near him 
 
 Nor touch him nor queer him; 
 De deat' of his broncho delays not his course. 
 
 (If dat nag had hisspirit, 
 
 Or anyt'ing near it, 
 De U. S. has lost dere a mighty good horse.) 
 
 In fallin', jumps Teddy; 
 "Quick, foller me," said he, 
 
 An' wavin' his sword, he runs on ahead, still 
 Before him, behind him. 
 Each side him, ter blind him. 
 
 Were 't not fer his glasses, de dust of de hill 
 Arises wid bullets 
 From molehill an' gullets; 
 
 T'ough odders drop dead, sure, dey do him no ill. 
 
 De foe watches Teddy, 
 
 Expectin' dat dead he 
 Will tumble; but fellers, dat's not Teddy's game. 
 
 De Spaniards, in fightin'. 
 
 Fire once upon sightin' , 
 An' den flee ter cover — retreat is no shame. 
 
 If Teddy's polite, too, 
 
 An' all his men right, too, 
 Spain t'inks dey should battle exactly de same. 
 
Lays of CKinato^vn 
 
 But say ! dey saw Teddy 
 Keep on as dey fled, he 
 Led on wid his men till dey reached de hilltop. 
 In face of all firin' 
 Dey charged still untirin' , 
 Wat t'ell who was wounded, no Yankee would stop. 
 "De Devil is leadin'," 
 De Dons clamored, pleadin' 
 "If we don't vamoose, he will have a new crop." 
 
 So a healt' ter yer, Teddy, 
 
 Whom we know already. 
 Yer rough-housed de cops so w'en yer was wid us 
 
 Dat I guess dat de fact is 
 
 Yer got inter practice 
 Right here how ter handle yer dukes in a fuss. 
 
 We'n yer trun down de Boss, sure 
 
 Yer de slickest dat was, sure 
 Yer would make Weyler look t'irty cents in a muss. 
 
Lays of CKinatoivn 
 
 STEVE BRODIE, ESQ., SOLUS. 
 DE BOWERY.' 
 
 Oh, de Bowery's not fastidyus; dere ain't no such t'ing 
 
 as dirt. 
 An' a bloke's full-suit in summer dere is pants, an' 
 
 shoes, an' shirt. 
 An' a lady dresses likewise, changin' pants inter a skirt — 
 But dey live up ter de limit on de Bowery. 
 On de Bowery, on de Bowery, 
 Swaller-tails a breach of peace. 
 An' a biled shirt calls ' ' perlice, ' ' J 
 
 An' an overcoat er vest — ] 
 
 Only's good ter hock at best — 
 Dey allow no such frivol' ty on de Bowery. \ 
 
 De Bowery is no place fer saints, I scarcely need relate, 
 An' de Ten Commandments dere are judged as stric'ly 
 
 out of date. 
 An' de maxims of Sassiety have very little weight 
 
 From de fust unter de last place on de Bowery. 
 On de Bowery, on de Bowery, 
 Oh ! no boys nor girls are dere — 
 On de level, dis is square — 
 All de kids are men an' wimmen , 
 Tough and alwuz fightin' trim in ; 
 Oh ! dey alwuz welcomes trouble on de Bowery. 
 
 Dere are fakirs on de Bowery, too, an' touts of every 
 kind, 
 
L' a y s of CKinato'wii 
 
 An' puUers-in ter kindly help yer make up yer own mind; 
 An' t'eeves ter clean yer pockets out, if t'ree sheets in de 
 wind — 
 
 An' de ladies are persistent on de Bowery. 
 On de Bowery, on de Bowery, 
 Ah! de girls don't dress so well, 
 P'rhaps, as duz de up-town swell; 
 But dey love yer twice as kindly, 
 An' dey see yer errors blindly — 
 Oh! de warmest babies now are on de Bowery. 
 
 An' de beer saloons are flashin' wid dere gran' electric 
 
 lights, 
 Were yer see de wimmen's pictures an' sometimes some 
 
 dandy fights; 
 An' dere's food an' drink an' lodgin' on de snowy winter 
 nights. 
 
 If ye has de price ter pay upon de Bowery. 
 On de Bowery, on de Bowery, 
 If yer has de price ter pay 
 All de night dere yer can stay; 
 But if so yer cannot treat, 
 " Get ter hell inter de street " — 
 Is de bouncer's invitation on de Bowery. 
 
 Oh! de life is free an' easy, an' yer never need no card 
 Ter introjuce yerself unter a lady er a pard. 
 "W'y, certainly, we'll drink wid yer; well, here is our 
 regard," 
 
 Is de formula fer glad han's on de Bowery. 
 On de Bowery, on de Bowery, 
 'Tis, "Well, now, it's up ter me — 
 Wat is your's agoin' ter be — 
 An' w'at are yer drinkin', John? " 
 
 13 
 
I^ a y s of CliinatO'Mrn 
 
 So until yer money's gone, i 
 An' yer find yer watch is pinched upon de Bowery. 
 
 Oh! dey don't live ter old age upon de Bowery; fer, yer i 
 
 see, J 
 
 Dere way of life is not conducive ter longevity; | 
 
 But dere's fun in every minute, an' it's alwuz wild an' j 
 
 free. j 
 
 An' deat' is just an incident on de Bowery. 
 
 On de Bowery, on de Bowery, • 
 P'rhaps yer frien's dey all chip in 
 
 Fer de undertaker's tin, j 
 
 Er yer go ter Potter's Fiel's, j 
 
 Er on dinky little w'eels, I 
 
 Ter de tables of de doctors from de Bowery. | 
 
 14 
 
L' a y s of Ctiinato-wn 
 
 THE DYING GLADIATOR. 
 
 "Say, Chimmie, dis is Deat', I t'ink. 
 
 De place is growin' dark ter me. 
 Ah! take me out beneat' de sky, 
 
 P'rhaps in Gawd's sunlight I can see. 
 Ah, dat was no fair, stan'-up fight; 
 
 De Dago cut me wid a knife. 
 I'd knocked de stuffin' outer him. 
 
 If he'd fit fair, yer bet yer life. 
 
 "No, no, dere is no hope for me; 
 
 I know dis weakness w'at it is. 
 Say, w'en yer take de message home, 
 
 Jim, break it kindly unter Liz. 
 Give ^er me love — 'taint worth fer much; 
 
 or man, I never wuz much use. 
 Tell 'er I'm sorry — she'll know w'at — 
 
 It wuzn't me, it wuz de booze. 
 
 " Dey've rung up fer de amberlance, 
 
 Dey've sent some one ter get de priest; 
 But, say, dey'll bot' get here too late — 
 
 I know dis breat' will soon have ceased. 
 Say, Jim, I wonder w'en we dies 
 
 If dat's de finish of de game ? 
 I wudn't want ter live again 
 
 If I wuz jus' ter be de same. 
 
 "Say, ol' man, dili yer ever pray? 
 No, Jim, I will not lose me grip. 
 
 15 
 
L> a y s of Chinatown 
 
 Wat comes, I give it ter yer straight, •' 
 
 I'll stand it wid stiff upper lip. I 
 
 But, on de level, now, I t'ink i 
 
 I've really never had a chance, ■ 
 
 Fer I have lived upon de street 
 
 Since fust I wore a pair of pants. j 
 
 ] 
 
 " I wonder, now, w'at God is like \ 
 
 (Here, hoi' me head upon yer arm). j 
 
 I don't t'ink He will be too hard . i 
 
 On one who never did Him harm. 1 
 
 Say, if dere really is a hell, *' 
 
 It can't be worse dan Chinatown. 
 
 I've had ter fight fer bread ter eat, ! 
 
 An' all me life I have been down. j 
 
 '' Say, w'ere dat Dago cut me, Jim, | 
 
 It burns as if I wuz on fire. ] 
 
 I can't breat'e easy — p'rhaps I cud j 
 
 If yer wud lift a little higher. I 
 
 No whisky now — 'twon't do no good. ; 
 
 I can't see nothin' as I die. i 
 
 Remember, say ter Liz, fergive. i 
 
 Speak ter de boys — say, Jim — Good-by." ; 
 
 i6 
 
1^ ak.y s of CliinatoMrn 
 
 MR. CHUCK CONNORS SINGS "DE PUSH ] 
 
 AT CONEY ISLAN'." | 
 
 Oh, de trick of Coney Islan' 
 
 Dat yer cannot trump elsewhere — 
 'Tis no charm of sand nor ocean, 
 
 Nor de balm of sea-salt air, 
 Nor de bending dome of Heaven 
 
 Dat hangs sheer o'er depths of space — 
 Per from Tybee ter Bar Harbor 
 
 'Tis de same in every place. 
 
 'Tis de livin' panorama of de Islan' — 
 
 'Tis de breathin' poster-picture of de Islan' — 
 
 'Tis de laughin', 
 
 'Tis de quaffin', 
 
 'Tis de laughin', quaffin', chaffin', 
 
 Of de crowds dat makes de trick of Coney Islan'. 
 
 In de burnin' days of summer. 
 
 When yer feel de quiverin' heat 
 Parch de atmosphere around yer. 
 
 An' de glistenin' city street ; 
 Der is healt' an' strengt' an' rapture. 
 
 Den ter steal an hour away, 
 Were de sands of Coney Islan' 
 
 Show der varied world at play. 
 
 Oh, de flashin' arms an' legs of lovely women ; 
 Oh, de frank, revealin' garbs of graceful women- 
 
 17 
 
L- a y s of Cliinatoivn 
 
 De abandon < 
 
 Dere de sand on, i 
 
 De abandon grand on sand on : 
 Public spots of long-haired, star-eyed, lithe-limbed i 
 
 women. j 
 
 Oh, de joyous sense of freedom ; 
 
 From de trammels we have wrought — . ^ 
 
 How unnatural Life's conventions, i 
 
 How anaemic Culture's t' ought; ] 
 
 Here we doff our civilization i 
 
 Fer a pagan revelry, ' 
 In a merry dance an' frolic, 
 
 Ter de chimin' of de sea. i 
 
 In de picturesque abandon of de Islan' — j 
 
 In de ancient Grecian frankness of de Islan' — \ 
 
 In de swirlin', { 
 An' dewhirlin'. 
 
 An' de swirlin', whirlin', twirlin', ] 
 Of de dance an' drink an' drama of de Islan'. 
 
 How holler an' unreal j 
 
 Is de dignity of man j 
 
 In de freedom of a garden — j' 
 
 So de human race began. • 
 
 Many artificial pleasures I 
 
 Man has taught hisself since den, ;; 
 
 But when seekin' real enjoyment '| 
 
 Den he lapses wild again. 
 
 Hence he seeks de Grecian frankness of de Islan' — 1 
 
 Of de posin' disrobed women of de Islan' — | 
 
 De laughin' an de quaffin', ■ 
 
 An' de swirlin', whirlin', twirlin' | 
 
 In de dance an' drink an' drama of de Islan'. i 
 
 i8 
 
Lays of Ctiinato-wn 
 
 CHUCK DINES AT DENNETT'S. 
 
 I wuz eatin' onct In Dennett's — I ain' t stuck upon de feed. 
 If a man wuz empty stummicked, 'taint de kind of joint 
 
 he'd need. 
 Wen yer haven't got an appetite, w'y, den, give it a call, 
 'T'ough de under w'eatcakes often is, indeed, almighty 
 
 small. 
 But dis I do attribute ter de framed religious verse — 
 Wen dey feed hot' soul an' body, den de body gets de 
 
 worse. 
 
 But, say, de girls are peaches ; say, dey' re really out of 
 
 sight. 
 Wid dinky lace upon der heads an* aprons spick an' white. 
 But it seems ter me as out er place ter read above yer head, 
 Dat if one trusted in de Lord, he wud be clo'ed an' fed; 
 An' immedyitly beneat' it, like de Bible pounder's notes, 
 Dat de owner of de beanery wouldn't stan' fer stolen coats. 
 
 All de girls at night is chased, an' den de waiters all is 
 
 men ; 
 An', in course, 'taint so invitin' fer ter go an' eat dere den. 
 But de time dat I refer ter wuz upon a rainy night. 
 An' I ordered tea an' sinkers from a waiter imperlite. 
 De t'ing dat made him buggy, but w'ich den I didn't 
 
 know, 
 Wuz de men at de nex' table, dey had roasted him as 
 
 slow. 
 
 19 
 
L' a y s of Cl\inato\(rn 
 
 Two frien's wuz sittin' facin', called by Frenchy vis-d-viSy, 
 An' I didn't give a t' ought to dem, an' dey gave non^ 
 
 ter me. 
 I wuz readin' of de motto o'er me head w'ose wordsl 
 
 were dese, 
 "Dat if I pleased de Lord, He'd send prosperity an* 
 
 peace" — "; 
 
 '^'en suddenly be'ind me, dere wuz somet'ing tumbled! 
 
 o'er, i 
 
 'Twuz a fallen cup of coffee, an' it smashed upon de floor.': 
 
 Den I turned an' saw de waiter stan' a moment in dismayi 
 Wid his arm chock full of "ham an," "beef an',"_; 
 
 'taters, bread — well, say, ' 
 
 He named de man be'ind me, but it did his mot'er shame,; 
 An' he lifted up de "ham an' " and he soaked him wid de 
 
 same ; 
 Den de " beef an'," den de 'taters, den de plate of bread* 
 
 — me word, i 
 
 But dat waiter in a temper wuz a dandy an' a bird. ' 
 
 But wedder 'twuz his anger or because he wuz no good; 
 At hittin' bull's-eyes, peggin' dem wuz but a waste of] 
 
 food. I 
 
 He didn't hit de man onct, but de ketchup bot' he struck, ^ 
 An' den de oil, den vinegar, den odder table truck; ; 
 
 He smashed dem, an' dere insides ran de shinin' tablel 
 
 o'er, I 
 
 An' formed a red an' gummy pool like blood upon de^ 
 
 floor. I 
 
 Den de man got up an' fetched de waiter one between dei 
 eyes, ! 
 
hfSL-ys of Cliinato-virii 
 
 An' wid his other hand he followed up de fust surprise. 
 Den a half a dozen waiters left dere tables in a rush, 
 An' flung themselves ter help de fust an' get inter de push; 
 An' nex' his frien' jumped up ter give ter him a helpin' 
 
 han', 
 An' dey fou't and cursed an' yanked each odder 'round 
 
 ter beat de ban'. 
 
 I wuz hemmed in in de corner, an' I grabbed de nearest 
 
 chair, 
 Alt'ough a tex' just oppersite tol' me ter trust ter prayer; 
 But I knew dat wid dat chair if I shud hit a man a t'ump, 
 He'd lay a-bodderin' no one on de floor all in a lump. 
 Dey surged an' splurged until I riz me chair ter join de 
 
 fray, 
 Wen dey knocked de table over an' all tumbled from me 
 
 way. 
 
 Well, say, 'twas fun — de sugar-bowls, de salt, an' castors 
 
 flew; 
 Dey all wuz spilled upon de floor, an' several waiters, too. 
 An' den two p'licemen hustled in an' den de fun wuz 
 
 stopped; 
 But not until a waiter quick beneat' a night-stick dropped. 
 Wot' ell! — a little mob like dat a cop w'o comes ter pinch. 
 Say, wid dat wicked club of his he has a lead- pipe cinch. 
 
 Dey locked de doors upon us. Fust, I t'ought we'd all 
 
 be jugged. 
 De men declared 'twus waiters fust, de waiters dem dat 
 
 slugged; 
 De men dey wuz all right, t'ough; say, seven waiters had 
 
 black eyes. 
 
L'AT^s of Chinatoivn 
 
 Alt'ough dey tore de fellers' coats; but dey wuz plucky 
 
 guys. 
 I don't know how it ended, for de p'Hce unlocked de 
 
 door, 
 An' I bolted wid de odders, say, an' no one paid his 
 
 score. 
 
Lays of Cliinatown 
 
 SPEECH OF THE LEADER OF THE INSUR- 
 RECTION IN MISS BROWN'S CLASS.* 
 
 Say, fellers, on de level, now, 
 
 Dis poetry makes me sick ; 
 But r ve a bluff upon de guys 
 
 I t'ink will take de trick. 
 We ain't no tremblin' sissy kids, 
 
 Like little Fauntleroy, 
 Ter learn dese woozy dinky rhymes 
 
 About de mudder's boy. 
 
 Dat kid upon de burnin' deck — 
 
 Now, wasn't he a guy 
 Ter stay an' get hisself burned up? 
 
 Such fellers ought ter die. 
 An' him, too, in Excelsior ; 
 
 Such crazy blokes, I t'ink. 
 Are 'nuff ter make a fellow tired 
 
 An' drive a man ter drink. 
 
 Ah, w'at's dis guff dey're givin' us? 
 
 'Tis only fit fer girls, 
 Or mamma's little darlin' pets 
 
 In velveteen an' curls. 
 
 *The Board of Education having ordered that every school- 
 child be taught a poem each month, one class in a down-town 
 school indignantly refused to waste time acquiring such frivolous 
 erudition. 
 
L' a y s of CKinato-wn 
 
 W'y don't dey teach us livin' t'ings 
 
 About de Bowery. See? 
 Were Rummager blacked Sallie's lights, 
 
 Dat wud be poetry. 
 
 Dey talk about de gran* ol' man — 
 
 Dat must be John L., sure; 
 He'd whip Jim Corbett yet, yer bet, 
 
 If he'd de Keeley cure. 
 W'y don't dey write out useful rules, 
 
 Dose literary chaps, 
 Of how ter use yer digits best, 
 
 Or how ter win at craps ? 
 
 If dey must sing of heroes on 
 
 Dere hifalutin' lyres, 
 W'y don't dey tell about de men 
 
 W'at save our homes from fires? 
 Ah ! dey are heroes, too, fer keeps ; 
 
 Dis ain't no ragtime joke ; 
 Dey'd let demselves all burn ter bits 
 
 Ter save a kid from smoke. 
 
 Dat book dey call Longfellow; say, 
 
 Now, don't yer b'lieve a word. 
 I axed me ol' man t'other night 
 
 If he of him had heard. 
 He said Longfellow wuz a horse — 
 
 Say, dat most knocked me fiat — 
 He wuz no writin' guy at all : 
 
 Now, w'at yer t'ink of dat? 
 
 I'm goin' ter write de Board meself, 
 An' tell dem to smoke up. 
 
 24 
 
17a ys"^ CHinatown 
 
 Dey ought ter read Chuck Connors' song 
 
 About dad's brindle pup. 
 Dere's horse-races an' prize-fights, too, 
 
 An' pool an' chips an' craps. 
 An' fires ter write of— Hully Gee ! 
 
 Dey' 11 change dat rule, perhaps. 
 
 25 
 
L- a y* s of Cliinato-wn 
 
 A letter from a resident of the Bowery , the ^^ black sheep' 
 
 of a profninent family , to his brother at 
 
 the Waldorf-Astoria: 
 
 Dear Van: 
 
 You'll say the change is ill 
 From Murray Hill to Cherry Hill, 
 And quote th' advice of Lampson-Locker 
 To cultivate the Knickerbocker; 
 But pass poor folks on t'other side 
 A la' the Levite in his pride, 
 Though well you know that often sure 
 I cannot pass or rich or poor 
 (Which recollection makes me think 
 I need just now another drink). 
 I'm writing this from CoUigan's, 
 The prince, indeed, of publicans; 
 For John has beer so rich and good 
 It is a sort of natural food. 
 And ale so musty, old and prime. 
 To spill a drop would be a crime, 
 And gin and brandy superfine; 
 But oh, his whiskey is divine. 
 So ripe with age, through wood so mellow, 
 'Twould make a churl a genial fellow, 
 Unite the bitterest foes that quarrel, 
 With not a headache in a barrel. 
 Nor that damned 4 A. M. insomnia 
 That rings the boy with ice to come near. 
 Ah, many a festive hour I've spent. 
 Nor cared how slow the moments went, 
 
 26 
 
Layso/diinatown | 
 
 — ■ - — .i 
 
 Here, by the tables in the rear, : 
 
 Unseen to see, unheard to hear; j 
 
 To watch outside the pelting rain, | 
 
 Or snow or slush of winter's train, ;j 
 
 The horses, with their lumbering load, j 
 
 The trains of th' elevated road, | 
 
 The jangle of the cable car, ) 
 
 And then the motley crowd that jar ; 
 
 And jostle this o'ercrowded place, j 
 
 Of every sort, of every race. i 
 
 The pig-tailed Chinaman, the Jew, | 
 
 The Lascar, Jap, and Arab, too— ; 
 The sailor home from foreign seas. 
 
 The soldier with a day's release, | 
 
 The business man, the natty clerk, 5 
 The bloated tramp, disdaining work, 
 
 And now and then a dainty form \ 
 
 That braved discomfort of the storm, | 
 
 From out whose upraised skirt would gleam j 
 
 A leg a sculptor's sleep might dream. ^ j 
 
 Ah! Van, you know I've had my part m ^ 
 
 The balls of Mrs. Bradley -Martin; j 
 
 They're only different in degree v j 
 
 To those not in Society. \ 
 
 There's wit as deep and fun as hearty I 
 
 Here in a Fourth Ward mixed ale party— ) 
 
 In both, however, fops may prate, sure \ 
 
 There's much of common human nature. j 
 
 The sole distinction it is clear, | 
 
 Is that between champagne and beer. , 
 
 This in a stein, that in a flagon, ■ 
 
 But at the end both get a jag on, j 
 
 And in a parlor or an attic, j 
 
 Once drunk, all men are democratic. '■ 
 
 27 
 
LfSk.ys of CKinato-wn 
 
 I write this merely to remind 
 
 That my allowance is behind, i 
 
 And though I am your only brother i 
 
 And father's death precludes another, ; 
 
 You scarcely would delight to see , 
 Among your other callers, nie, 
 Since I have grown a trifle shabby , 
 And often drunk and always gabby, 
 Then for the hint I here express 
 
 Pray mail it to my new address, i 
 
 And to escape the dubious honor i 
 
 To see xn propria persona \ 
 
 Your brother, \ 
 
 Jacob Vander- blank, i 
 (Alias, locally, " Der Tank"), i 
 
 28 
 
L'Strs of Chinatowo 
 
 Mcpherson. 
 
 McPherson was a blackguard and a gentleman in one, 
 And nothing ever staggered him that promised any fun ; 
 He loved all men as brothers and he loved their sisters, 
 
 And he 'ruined all the others when he shii)ped upon the 
 
 crew. 
 
 And in port the Bos n said 
 Of the person named McPherson, 
 Never, boys, by him be led — 
 Never let him go with you ; 
 What you see him do don't do — 
 Where you see him go don't go — 
 So you'll keep from staggering bodies and from broken 
 heads, I know. 
 
 If the pure in heart see God alone, McPherson ne'er will 
 
 see Him ; • r ^ u 
 
 If one must for all oaths atone, I would not wish to be 
 
 But where'er on Earth he dwells he is debtor to much 
 
 And^tttS^^ake some pangs of Hell's to weigh down the 
 brimming measure. 
 
 For this was philosophy 
 With the person named McPherson : 
 " Death will be the end of me, 
 And no pockets are allowed 
 In the bosom of a shroud — 
 
 29 
 
L" a y s of Cliinatoivn 
 
 Then no whisky will be good. 
 Drink now, hearty," said McPherson. "Life's for kisses, 
 drink and food." 
 
 The middy was the person led the vessel's joking clan. 
 " In port," declared McPherson, " I will make that boy a 
 
 man" — 
 Which meant that in the city he would show him all the 
 sights, I 
 
 And reveal to him (the pity !) of the mystery of Nights. ' 
 Oh, the mystery of Nights — 
 Day is open, but there's no pen ; 
 
 Can describe the tranced delights ' 
 
 Of red Bacchus and Silenus, 
 And the flower-bud-bosomed Venus, ; 
 
 Where the Gorgon's face peers in — i 
 
 And the Youth with parching lips first greets the scorch- ; 
 ing mouth of Sin. ' 
 
 The ship from Nagasaki now was anchored at Foochow, • 
 
 And McPherson at the twilight — "Hark!" he said, j 
 
 " there'll be a row ; | 
 
 I will go ashore, no matter though the orders are to stay, ] 
 
 But the city's smell and clatter draw me cityward to stray. ' 
 
 There is old Pagoda Island, I 
 
 And the color growing duller j 
 
 Of the river toward the dry land — j 
 
 We will sneak aboard a sampan. 
 
 And we soon will be a-trampin' \ 
 
 Through the streets of old Foochow : : 
 
 Will you go, too? " said McPherson, and the tar said, ; 
 
 "Then or now." j 
 
 Then hidden in a sampan, as McPherson showed him how, j 
 
 30 
 
L- a y s of CliinatoMrn 
 
 The middy soon was trampin' with him up and down 
 
 Foochow — 
 With lantern-Ht pagodas showing from each point of 
 
 sight, 
 And drinking brandied sodas till they both were bravely 
 tight. 
 
 Oh, the China girls were gracious 
 In carouses in tea-houses, 
 And the time they had was spacious, 
 And to celebrate the fun 
 (As the worship was begun). 
 With a sanctimonious air, 
 They knelt down in the Joss house to burlesque the pray- 
 ing there. 
 
 The stolid Chinese, kneeling, scarcely seemed to note the 
 
 pair, 
 Though the priests evinced their feeling by a long, sus- 
 picious stare ; 
 Till, McPherson, perhaps less giddy, wearied on the farce 
 
 to keep, 
 And turned unto the middy, but the youngster was 
 asleep. 
 
 Fast and loud came slumber o'er him. 
 With a giant most defiant. 
 Of an idol just before him ; 
 And upon the middy's right 
 Squat, perhaps, a score in sight, 
 In a semi-circular belt, 
 And McPherson kicked the middy prone among them as 
 he knelt. 
 
 Oh, the scrambling and the jamming and the Babel 
 caused thereby, 
 
 31 
 
^ay s of Chinatown 
 
 With the Christians' vigorous damning and the heath- 
 ens' "mokkihi!" 
 
 As the middy and McPherson madly, gladly, sought the 
 door, 
 
 And knocked down every person who barred egress 
 
 near a score. 
 
 It was sport to see the sprinting 
 Down the highways and the byways 
 Of old Foochow in the glinting 
 Of the moonshine and the stars, 
 As the Chinks pursued the tars. 
 Where the river rushes coldly, 
 
 And the sailors stopped a second, then sprang o'er the 
 rampart boldly. 
 
 There the followers hesitated, standing timorous on the 
 
 brink, 
 And, with Eastern patience, waited, hoping soon the 
 
 two would sink ; 
 But, with barbarous yells and screeching loud, they 
 
 watched them grow remote. 
 And in final safety reaching, saw them climb in their boat. 
 There they both of them wert clapt in 
 The dark hutches and the clutches 
 Of the bos'n and the captain, 
 And their shore leave stopped while there ; 
 But McPherson did declare, 
 "Though this prison is abhorred, 
 My boy, we spoiled the heathen, and are prisoners of 
 the Lord." 
 
 32 
 
LfAys of CKinato'wn 
 
 THE SLUMMING PARTY. 
 
 It was midsummer's night in Chinatown ; 
 
 The sun for o'er an hour had sunken down 
 
 From sight, but left a legacy of heat 
 
 In panting tenement and scorching street; 
 
 The air all breathless and so very still, 
 
 The brooding hush, one thought of omened ill, 
 
 Of waterspouts at sea and whirlwinds dire. 
 
 The calm of Sodom ere the 'whelming fire ; 
 
 Though now and then arose a shallow din, 
 
 The noise of children, but far off and thin, 
 
 Until there rolled along the echoing street 
 
 The rumble of near carriage wheels, the beat 
 
 Of quickly driven hoofs. "Now, don't yous stir," 
 
 Chuck Connors whispered to the Rummager, 
 
 Who, with two friends, was lined up at the bar, 
 
 And drinking whiskies with a generous tar. 
 
 "I'll bet yous all anoder round of drinks 
 
 'Tis some swell guys come down ter see de Chinks. 
 
 Ah, dere dey are" — he pointed o'er the way; 
 
 "Dere goin' in ter see de Chinese play. 
 
 Two ladies an' two gents' ' ; then to the tar, 
 
 " 'Tis strange," he said, "how like all women are 
 
 De same — all, weder bred on Cherry Hill 
 
 Or Murray Hill, dey' re de same corkers still. 
 
 But not de men ; say, dose dudes are unplaced, 
 
 Wasp-waisted, spindle-shanked an' baby-faced; 
 
 Just swaller tails, high collars an' gold canes, 
 
 Dey are but tailors' dummies widout brains, 
 
 Dere dinky steps like roosters wid de pip ; 
 
 33 
 
L> a y s of Cliinato-wn 
 
 Say, I cud lick six of dem at a clip. i 
 
 Dere lily han's dat smell of mignonette i 
 
 Or lavender — give me de men w'at sweat, i 
 W'ose han's are good fer workin', wio know how 
 Ter break in horses, er kin mow er plough ; 
 
 Men w' o kin use de trowel er de pick, ' 
 
 An' brave de sun widout dere fallin' sick ; ^. 
 
 Men w'o kin work de ingin, furl de sail, ' 
 
 An' climb de masthead widout growin' pale; ' 
 
 Men w'o do somet'in', men of nerve an' grit, ■; 
 
 W'o kin speak wid dere fists w'en dey are hit : * 
 
 Dudes are not men; I'd rader be a tramp, J 
 An' breat' Gawd's sunshine an' de cold an' damp — " '^ 
 
 Just here the door oped softly, and from thence 'j 
 
 Slunk in a member of his preference. * 
 
 "Sneak out," he cried, "yer misbegotten cub, j 
 
 Er else I'll break yer face in wid me club. ^ 
 
 Giv yer a drink? say, now, widout de price, ' 
 
 I wudn' t even give ter yer — advice ! ^ 
 
 So sneak — " ^ 
 
 Meanwhile, grown weary of the play, ! 
 The slumming quartette left and drove away 
 
 Up Doyers street to Pell, then stopped the wheel ' 
 
 To taste chop suey and a Chinese meal. : 
 
 Passing the Mission — at the open door ^ 
 A militant Christian woman stood who wore 
 
 The garb of the Salvation Army's blue, | 
 
 Who turning indoors voiced a Christian's view, ■ 
 
 " 'Tis strange that any eye can pleasure see | 
 In degradation, sin and misery; 
 
 What can allure a girl in innocence reared ' 
 
 In trembling wrecks or eyes by evil bleared ? '• 
 
 From such unpitying hearts and shallow minds J 
 
 34 
 
I^ a X s of CKinatown 
 
 His poor recruits the Devil ever finds. j 
 
 Those who without disgust Sin's orgies see | 
 
 Have gone halfway to join Depravity. | 
 
 Apply the spur of Want, Temptation's snare, ; 
 
 And all their virtue melts into vague air ; i 
 
 God pity them, and Jesus save us all, I 
 
 How close who stand are kin to those who fall. ' ' i 
 
 Next to the dives — the time at last is ripe j 
 
 To see its wretched victims "hit the pipe." | 
 
 A guide secured whose presence would allay j 
 
 The fear that these sightseers might betray j 
 
 All to a dismal, gaunt apartment trace ] 
 
 The way and note the mean, unfurnished place, '•. 
 
 Uncarpeted the floor, and curtainless j 
 
 Those windows where no baby fingers press, ! 
 
 But doubly barred and doubly barred the door, j 
 
 While shoes and coats and waistcoats strew the floor, | 
 
 And skirts and corsets, while the owners snore j 
 
 In pairs — heads pillowed oii the breast or trunk — ; 
 In beds placed tierwise, rising bunk o'er bunk, 
 
 Like berths on some Atlantic liner's side. J 
 
 The women lost to shame and dead to pride, i 
 
 Heedless what charm exposed to eyes of lust, I 
 
 The stockinged leg, bare arm and rhythmic bust, i 
 
 Resenting but one interdicted she — I 
 
 Th' unwilling homage Vice pays Purity. ' 
 
 Who was this She? Oh, know by the remark | 
 
 One girl half whispered in the clouding dark ( 
 
 To her near neighbor while they waited till \ 
 
 The Chinese cooked the sputtering opium pill, ; 
 
 "Say, Mag, who are those women in this place i 
 
 To flaunt their damned cold virtue in our face ? ,; 
 
 Is it not pain enough for those who err j 
 
 35 
 
Lays of Chinatoivn 
 
 To think of what we are and what we were, 
 
 But they must come with scornful eye to see 
 
 As we were beasts in some menagerie? 
 
 Lost, as we are, without a tie or claim. 
 
 Whom no one good can mention without shame, 
 
 God's most defenceless creatures, even at will 
 
 The bum may spit on us, yet women still 
 
 Bruise us — does not the wound turn black and blue ? 
 
 Do we not feel cold, heat, the frost, the dew, 
 
 Hunger and foot- ache? We, Life's forlorn hope, 
 
 With no friends save the liquor and the dope. 
 
 Ah, they come here in rags of Virtue dressed 
 
 To make our nakedness a show — a jest. 
 
 But draw their skirts away and close the eye 
 
 If in their churches one of us draws nigh." 
 
 Unconscious of remark, the slummers passed 
 Into the street and reached the Joss-house last — 
 Up squalid stairways till they saw his shrine, 
 And scoffed the rites the heathen deemed divine. 
 Then they drove home, but harmed more in a night 
 The heavenly cause than preachers could set right 
 In many months, as e'er the thoughtless tongue 
 Can sting, but never soothe the spirit stung. 
 But so the pagans judge, if Christians knew, 
 And hate the Christ for wrongs His followers do. 
 
 36 
 
L' a y s of Ctiinatoivxi 
 
 OLD JOE'S STORY. 
 
 Old Omar never jolted down 
 A single thought of Chinatown 
 (But Chinatown is even sure 
 It never heard of Naishap6r). 
 And still, unless my census errs, 
 Old Omar has more worshipers 
 In Chinatown — alas, the pity ! — 
 Than ever lived in his own city. 
 And these old Joe leads easily first 
 With his unplumbed phenomenal thirst. 
 
 'Twas in McColgan's, warm and bright, 
 Upon a snowy, blust'ry night. 
 That Joe reeled in, his usual jag on. 
 And begged of us a sobering flagon. 
 For he had been, he cried aghast, 
 With force pedalic streetward cast 
 From every bar where liquor lurks. 
 From Pig's Foot Kelly's to McGurk's. 
 Then, sitting down — the drink was good- 
 Joe warmed in reminiscent mood. 
 And earned a generous pledge of ale 
 By telling us the following tale : 
 
 (Ah ! I remember with what awe 
 We gazed at Joe's insatiate maw, 
 And wondered if he was a true man. 
 Blessed with a stomach merely human. 
 That could contain yet without bursting 
 
 37 
 
L' a y s of Cliinatoivn 
 
 The seas he poured in in his thirsting, , 
 
 That let him live, despite the warning 
 
 Of leech and clergy night and morning, | 
 
 Like Bowery bummers, from whose «kin j 
 
 Whisky alone perspires, or gin. 
 
 It almost makes my mind agree 
 
 With his bibulous philosophy, | 
 
 Who, when the sweet girl missionary j 
 
 Besought him from his ways to vary, j 
 
 And told him (this was once in Sidney) I 
 
 How drink would ruin heart and kidney; 5 
 
 "Ruin" — the thought even now unnerves him — \ 
 
 "Why, bless your soul, ma'am, it preserves 'em ; 
 
 I've drank it forty years," said Joe, 
 
 "And really think I ought to know." i 
 
 This was his tale : In days of old. 
 
 When men first mined Australian gold, 
 
 Joe, by his restless spirit undone. 
 
 Sailed from his native port of London, 
 
 And finally joined th' adventurous throng ' 
 
 From Ballarat to Mount Korong, i 
 
 And staking there a paying claim, j 
 
 Acquired a certain local fame. i 
 
 'Twas known beyond the diggings' hounds ] 
 
 That Cockney washed a thousand pounds. ! 
 
 ! 
 
 One day a Bushmj^n of the place \ 
 
 Sang praises of his Loubra's grace. 
 
 Which kindled Joe's romance to life, | 
 
 He paid a pound to share the wife. \ 
 
 Don't start, prim reader, at Sin's ravage, 
 
 Nor lag a moral on the savage, ! 
 
 'Tis not confined to wild men solely. I 
 
 38 
 
I^ a y s of Ctiinato-wn 
 
 So Byron dealt with Guiccioli ; 
 
 And, really, Joe had more excuse — 
 
 The place, the time, the laws were loose ; 
 
 And as Korong in primitive days 
 
 Scarce offered Christian maids a place, 
 
 The guileless aborigines 
 
 Must be the substitutes for these. 
 
 And if their dusky lords were willing 
 
 T' allow this polyandrous billing, 
 
 It seemed outside another's sphere 
 
 Or to object or interfere 
 
 In these wild places, where one's cares 
 
 Were Hmited to his own affairs, 
 
 He soon had been in Charon's bark hearsed 
 
 Who there had played the part of Parkhur;:.t. 
 
 The night of assignation came, 
 
 And Joe set out, his heart aflame; 
 
 A chioke grove a mile or so 
 
 Beyond them had been named by Joe. 
 
 The prospect stretched so undulating. 
 
 The moonlight shone so penetrating 
 
 As e' er Australian heaven shines. 
 
 Joe almost saw it from the mines. 
 
 But as he hurried on, his thought 
 
 A certain tinge of romance caught; 
 
 This lady there awaiting him 
 
 Was young and not too tall, but slim ; 
 
 And he could dream her black eyes shine 
 
 Like stars seen from the lowest mine ; 
 
 Her rose-red lips that pout, inviting 
 
 His lips' soft ravage upon sighting ; 
 
 Her cheek, though rather dark than fair, 
 
 Yet such from too bold sun and air 
 
 39 
 
hfA-ys of CKinatoivn 
 
 That, dallying near her fond and free, 
 
 Had tanned her blush there constantly. 
 
 Such was the lady of his fancy, 
 
 "Whom I, alone," he thought, "now can see.' 
 
 But, oh, how different was the truth — 
 
 Which proves them heretics in sooth 
 
 To love's imperious orthodoxy. 
 
 Who take, or woo, or wed by proxy. 
 
 Instead of being tall and thin, 
 
 As drawn his partial revery in, 
 
 A woman short and squat and fat, 
 
 Turk-fashion on a tree-stump sat ; 
 
 Her face a liberal pitting bore 
 
 Of smallpox, and one eye was sore. 
 
 She ran to paunch, as females do, 
 
 Of woman there or kangaroo. 
 
 And blacker in her general hue 
 
 Than e'en the gloss on Joseph's shoe: 
 
 And smoked, which Joe thought rather rude e'en 
 
 In a boor, the rankest dudeen. 
 
 Joe for a moment stood aghast, 
 
 And next a look of anger cast 
 
 At pipe and smoker, then with oath : 
 
 "You bloody Loubra," smote them both. 
 
 The pipe was smashed, the woman fell 
 
 And lay prone, uttering yell on yell, 
 
 That quicker than I can describe 
 
 Brought half a dozen of her tribe — 
 
 Her husband leading. Joe deemed flight 
 
 Was wiser than unequal fight, 
 
 And sped on 'mid derisive laughter 
 
 From all the Bushmen following after. 
 
 40 
 
I^ a y s of CHinatown 
 
 But short the time ere Joe divined 
 
 A gaining foe was close behind, j 
 
 Then felt on coat and waistcoat band | 
 
 The impress of a vicelike hand. ' 
 
 With sudden frenzy and surprise, | 
 
 He turned and smote between the eyes; \ 
 
 The Bushman fell, but yet the grasp j 
 
 Was steel, refusing to unclasp. j 
 
 With mighty wrench and maddened twist j 
 
 Joe left the garments in his fist, | 
 
 But felt his shirt a raveled wreck, j 
 
 Torn from the bottom hem to neck, j 
 
 Which, floating winglike from behind, I 
 
 Seemed flags of truce borne on the wind. ./ 
 
 With added wings he flew, and then }> 
 
 A panting pagan stretched again, j 
 
 And with some skill — I know not how, sirs — | 
 
 Tore off" the belt that held his trousers ; ] 
 The coverings from their fastenings slipt, 
 
 Embraced his feet, and down he tripped. ' 
 
 So close the enemy did pursue ^ 
 
 Joe's fall struck prone the follower, too. \ 
 
 But here the white man's better brain \ 
 
 Proved well its trained superior strain ; j 
 His trousers, by a nimble kick, 
 Flew off", and to his feet as quick. 
 
 While yet the Bushman groaning lies, i 
 A moment shackled by surprise. | 
 Again they're off"! Joe reached the road ■ 
 That stretched straight to his own abode, i 
 A dozen yards ahead at least ''> 
 His agile thought his lead increased, ] 
 The only piece left of his suit ' 
 His pennant flying shirt and boot. 
 _____^ { 
 
 41 ^ 
 
LfA-ys of Cl\inato\«rn 
 
 [I merely hint as hereon bearing 
 
 The running comment of his swearing 
 
 An artist he in objurgation! 
 
 Invoked impartially damnation ^ 
 
 Upon his eyes, upon his soul, 
 
 On all between him and his goal, 
 
 On Loubra and her lord; the others 
 
 With disrespect unto their mothers. 
 
 No fisher wives of Billingsgate 
 
 Could keep with him an equal rate, 
 
 And rowdies fighting in Whitechapel 
 
 With strings of oaths obscene may grapple; 
 
 But none more blasphemy could carry 
 
 Than Joe's profane vocabulary, 
 
 With which the shuddering air might well 
 
 Feel laden with a blast from Hell,] 
 
 The Bushmen now gave up the race ; 
 Too nearly drawn the miners' place ; 
 But Joe kept on his sprinting form, 
 Not to escape, but to keep warm. 
 The naked Indian in a race 
 Ne'er kept, indeed, a faster pace, 
 Nor Lishmahago on the ladder 
 Appeared more ludicrous or madder ; 
 Though naught he recked of clothing lost. 
 Nor jokes to-morrow at his cost. 
 But thanked his stars that home was near, 
 Without a further risk to fear, 
 When, lo! before his door there stood 
 A sight that froze his very blood : 
 His landlady was standing there 
 To breathe awhile the cooling air ; 
 The prim, precise and puritanic. 
 
 42 
 
LfSk,-ys of Cliinato'^vn 
 
 Now paralyzed by very panic; 
 And he could in the inner hall see — 
 A statue, too, from nervous palsy — 
 The girl he would have risked a life, 
 And gladly, to have made his wife. 
 
 Joe swore with double desperation, 
 
 But still kept toward his destination. 
 
 "Turn round, turn round," he cried, "ye bitches, 
 
 Why, don't yer see I've lost my breeches;" 
 
 His one sole thought to gain his room 
 
 And hide his blushes in its gloom. 
 
 So madly on his way he tore — 
 
 He brushed his sweetheart to the floor, 
 
 And stopping not t' express contrition. 
 
 With one last bound he forced admission. 
 
 Once there, in frenzied haste he chose 
 
 And clad himself again in clothes. 
 
 Then bundled into his portmanteau 
 
 Whatever he could lay his hand to. 
 
 And waiting till the household slept, 
 
 On tiptoe down the stairway crept. 
 
 Then on the glistening roadway that 
 
 Stretched weary miles to Ballarat 
 
 So quickly did our hero fly 
 
 He had not time to wish good-by. 
 
 But left there owing several sovereigns 
 
 To his landlady at McGovern's. 
 
 43 
 
L- a y s of CKinatOMrn 
 
 FLOTSAM AND JETSAM. 
 A BOWERY TRAGEDY. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Coi,. Bi,ANK. Lieut. Dash. 
 
 Fribda. Sheeny Rachei,. 
 
 LiBBiE the Man. 
 
 Two Bystanders and Waiters. 
 
 Scene — McGurk's Saloon, on the Bowery. 
 
 Time — Ten o'clock P. M. to midnight. 
 
 Col. B. — Is this McGurk's? The handbills we received 
 At Santiago held no mirror up 
 Of the reality, but poster- like 
 Has made a thing indifferent, vile and coarse 
 Seem full of beauty and desire. 
 
 Lieut. D. — A lure 
 
 Of drunken soldiers, and a spot to leech 
 Unshaven sailors home from all the ends 
 And corners of the globe. 
 
 Col. B. — How passing strange 
 
 These slaves of Toil and Danger. So to sweat 
 And dare the barbs of Accident and Death 
 For months monotonous, then waste the gold, 
 The guerdon of their labor, in a round 
 Of senseless revelry in as many hours. 
 
 Lieut. D. — See that poor fool is giving all his silver 
 To that worn drab — so friendly for a night. 
 Unknown this noon, and gone before to-morrow. 
 
 i 
 
 .1 
 
I^ a y s of CHinatoivn 
 
 Col. B. — There is that in the fellowship of waves 
 And constant peril that makes money base, 
 As if sworn friends of Death should say, ' ' With such 
 As we the poor economies of Prudence, 
 The anxious thought providing for to-morrow 
 Is out of place, as all we have of time 
 And money is the present— let us drain 
 The cup of Pleasure deeply while we may." 
 
 {Enter waiter.^ 
 W. — Wat's yer orders, gents? 
 Lieut. D. — Two beers. 
 
 {Exeunt and returns with two glasses — 
 half beer, half foam.^ 
 
 Col. B. — The girls — 
 
 You know them all ? 
 W. — Indifferently well. 
 
 Col. B. — Who are those three? — the youngest still retains 
 
 In looks some trace of early innocence. 
 W. — The one in black is Lib the Man — a fiend 
 
 In anger — she has served the state — she threw 
 
 A lighted lamp once at another girl, 
 
 And nearly caused her death in flame. The Jewess 
 
 Is Sheeny Rachel — thief as well as Cyprian ; 
 
 And the red-cheeked, blue-eyed and babe-faced doll 
 
 Is Frieda — somewhat new yet to the Bowery. 
 Col. B. — She has an eye through which a spotless soul 
 
 Might peer with harmony. 
 W. — She has all virtue 
 
 Save virtue. She knows Life's night side as well 
 
 As any priest his prayer-book. 
 Lieut. D. — You yourself 
 
 Have known a different life ? 
 
 45 
 
Lays of Cliinatoivn 
 
 IV. — We all have here. . I 
 
 I entered in for holy orders once. j 
 
 Col. B. — Unholy orders now. | 
 
 W. — I'll introduce you, ^ 
 
 Ladies, me frien's. 
 
 ( The three women come over and sit at \ 
 the same table with the Col. and Lieut. ) : 
 I'll take yer orders, too. \ 
 
 Frieda. — Say, waiter, mine's a cocktail. 
 
 {The others order beers.') j 
 Col. B. — Don't you feel here unplaced? i 
 
 Frieda — I've done all dives from Albany to Buffalo, j 
 
 And when I've done New York, I'm ripe for Hell. 
 
 {The waiter, having fetched their sev-.\ 
 
 eral drinks, stands near while they \ 
 
 drink. \ 
 
 Let's see, now, who can tell the nastiest story. I 
 
 I will begin. ; 
 
 ( They all prove adepts. Liquor, smutty | 
 
 stories and suggestive stanzas follow 
 
 ■ in orderly [or disorderly] sequence. J 
 
 Even the white- aproned waiter listens ] 
 
 with such zest as to forget to remind j 
 
 them to order. Frieda, unblushing j 
 
 and baby-faced, easily is champion in 
 
 the Rabelaisia7i entertainment. Fi- i 
 
 nally a bystander leaves suddenly at j 
 
 one of her stories, crying back from j 
 
 the door: ''My stomach protests.") \ 
 
 Frieda. — I wonder who invents these stories. Say, 
 I once could tell them from the time I woke 
 'Til midnight without even a repetition. 
 
 A Bystander (rudely). — You must be rotten. j 
 
 46 
 
I^ a y s 0/ Ctiinatoivn 
 
 Frieda — Oh, there are much worse. 
 
 I'm pretty bad, p'rhaps, but there are much worse — 
 
 A pimp like you, for instance. Say, I think 
 
 These stories are all founded on some fact 
 
 Like scandal in their growth — 
 
 Some incident must have happened at the first, 
 
 And each relator adds embellishment 
 
 Of phrase or feature, making apropos 
 
 Or witty that which had in the beginning 
 
 Only a kernel of the later humor. 
 
 Col. B. — Your speech betrays you new unto these scenes. 
 
 Frieda. — I can talk tough, too. See that blonde-haired 
 
 She stole a chappie's diamond pin last night 
 Up in the Tivoli. I would not do that. 
 Bystander {soiio voce). — Not yet. 
 
 Frieda {overhearing him.) — No, never! What's she 
 doing here, 
 I wonder ? 
 Bystander. — What are you ? 
 
 Frieda {rather loudly). — Oh, seeing things. 
 
 Say, do you think because a girl is wayward 
 She must, too, be a thief? 
 
 {An elderly man interrupts from the 
 next table, his face livid, bloated, 
 smeared with the ashes of much dead 
 pleasure. ) 
 All do when youth has fled. The fair flower dies. 
 The plant grows less attractive, even if still 
 , The leaves smell sweet. 
 Frieda. — ^ The root is dead in you, 
 
 You reprobate old moralist in your cups. 
 Why don't you count your beads. To your white 
 hairs 
 
 47 
 
Lays of Cliinatoivn 
 
 Your leering face gives little honor — faith. 
 
 The man. — It is the same with all. 
 
 With yesterday all youth and beauty and 
 A host of gay admirers, who shower wealth 
 Upon you, as old Jove surrounded Danae. 
 To-day the beauty somewhat overripe 
 Shows tarnished, and the rich adorers seek 
 Another shrine. To-morrow — ah! the rose 
 Has rotted on its stem. — 'Tis only booze. 
 The lame, the blind and the ill-favored come 
 Coarse, brutal, moneyless. — All these are thieves, 
 'Tis Hogarth o'er again. The Tenderloin 
 At first, with suppers gay and bright champagne; 
 The Bowery next, and beer; then Chinatown, 
 And dope; then Cherry Hill, and last — the river. 
 
 Sheeny R. — Don't speak ter de ol' croaker. Dere she 
 goes — 
 Der blonde — so now forget it. 
 
 Frieda. — Any way, 
 
 I don't like blondes — they never can be trusted. 
 They're always cold and mercenary things 
 In friendship, love or money. 
 
 Libbie the Man. — Don't say dat. 
 
 Me sister is a blonde — here is her picture. 
 
 {Taking from her bosom a photograph 
 of a light-haired little girl. ") 
 Frieda. — Oh! ain't she cute. 
 
 Sheeny R. — Say, she's a peach. I've got a little kid 
 Dat is her image. 
 
 Libbie. — Wat! Yer stringin' us. 
 
 Yer wit' yer mop of hair as black as Hell, 
 An' eyes like coals. 
 
 48 
 
L> a y s of CKinatoivn 
 
 Sheeny R. — Her fat'er's light enough, 
 
 Wit' his blue eyes an' pinky cheeks — oh! damn him, 
 He brought me here. 
 
 Libbie. — Say, tell us all about it. 
 
 Frieda. — Hell, no! What is the use. Here's fun! 
 
 {She drinks.^ 
 
 Lieut. D. (to Frieda). — How would you like to marry? 
 
 Frieda. — Guess I am 
 
 As much as Rachel. 
 
 Sheeny R. — Dat's what worries me. 
 
 W'at will de goil say w'en she's old enough 
 Ter know about it? I would rat'er see her 
 A corpse laid in her coffin dan ter know it. 
 
 Frieda. — A husband is all right. Say, but for me. 
 No children. I would stand in terror of 
 The deep taint in the blood. I wouldn't breed 
 A girl child like myself. Say, do you think 
 My mother should have been congratulated 
 When I was laid first crying on her breast ? 
 
 Libbie. — Ferget it. 
 
 Who's ordering drinks? 
 
 (Another round is ordered, which the 
 obsequious waiter fetches.) 
 
 Frieda (irrelevantly) . — Have you seen Lottie here ? 
 
 Libbie. — No; nor yer won't. Her feller laid her up 
 Fer a long week. 
 
 Sheeny R. — Oh, he's an ugly brute. 
 
 Frieda. — So are all men. 
 
 Libbie. — He caught her hittin' de pipe 
 
 Wit' a lean Chink in Pell street. She is bruised 
 From head to foot. Yer ought ter see her lamps; 
 Dey're out of biz. 
 
 Sheeny R. — He Hves on her, de pimp. 
 
 Libbie. — Dat's all we women are good fer — simple slaves — 
 Ter keep a man — de master of our yout' ; 
 
 49 
 
L- a y s of Cliinato'wn 
 
 ( 
 
 . I 
 
 .| 
 
 Ter beat and kick us w'en he's in de mood, ' 
 
 An' w'en we're old, discard us. I 
 
 Frieda. — I would leave him. j 
 
 Libbie. — Den he would kill her. ^ i 
 
 Sheeny R. {suddenly). — Say, girls, I mus' go. ' 
 
 I haven't got me rent yet. Dere's a chance j 
 
 Dat hayseed has got money; let me touch him, ] 
 
 An' I'll go home a winner. j 
 
 {Exeunt. ) | 
 
 Libbie. — Would yer t'ink ] 
 
 Dat twice de Sheeny tried ter kill herself. | 
 
 De stomach-pump's de only t'ing w'at saved her. i 
 
 But didn't she fight de doctors ! \ 
 
 Frieda {laughing). — When I attempt the trick, there'll be ; 
 
 no failure. 1 
 
 Libbie. — Yer kill yerself ? Say, yer too happy-go-lucky | 
 
 Ter kill yerself; yer not of dat complexion. \ 
 
 Dat's where yer head is level. It don't pay | 
 
 Ter take t'ings serious in dis business, nor j 
 
 Ter t'ink o' t'ings dat's over long ago — ' 
 
 Far first yer frien's will leave yer, fer de fellers \ 
 
 All like a lively devil — den a girl \ 
 
 Wo takes t'ings solemn-like soon gets disgusted \ 
 
 Wit' life and wit' herself, an' ends it all | 
 
 Some day. | 
 
 Frieda {quietly). — That's what I'm going to do myself. \ 
 
 Look here. j 
 
 ( Taking a little vial from her stocking.) ■ 
 
 No policeman *11 ever run me in alive. 
 
 When I get tired, this is the route I'll take. | 
 
 a>/. ^.— What isit? j 
 
 Frieda. — Pure carbolic. I 
 
 Lieut. D.— Why, I thought \ 
 
 That you were always happy. 
 
 Frieda. — Happy? I? 
 
 5° ! 
 
I^ays of diinato-wn 
 
 Do you men dream such cattle as we are 
 
 Are ever happy ? Why, I left a home 
 
 Of elegant refinement. But, oh, Hell! 
 
 Say, what's the use remembering. Here is fun! 
 
 {Drinks.) 
 Libbie. — Well, say, I'm ready to be killed or kill 
 
 Myself as soon as I can kill de feller 
 
 W'at brought me here. I'm lookin' fer de chance; 
 
 An' den I'll follow. 
 Col. B. — This is horrible. 
 
 This crowd is getting too ghastly now for me. 
 
 Come, Edward, let us move. 
 
 ( The two men leave the table. Silence 
 falls upon the two women, and finally 
 Libbie the Man arises and leaves the 
 room,. Frieda sits alone, watching 
 the crowd. Three negro musicians 
 stroll in with banjo and guitar, and 
 the habituis hear them play and sing 
 with enjoyment. New arrivals come 
 and go — by midnight the place is full. 
 Frieda moves over to a corner table, 
 still alone. A clock in the neighboring 
 steeple tolls the hour. Frieda arises 
 and looks around. Then she walks 
 to a far table where she sees Libbie 
 the Man sitting with two sailors.) 
 
 "Give me a drink?" she asks of one. 
 
 "Why, certainly; sit down." 
 
 "No, I will drink this standing," 
 
 ( The waiter brings her a foaming glass, 
 and she turns around to blow off the froth. ) 
 
 "Here goes nothing," she says suddenly with a 
 
 shriek, and falls to the ground. From one hand rolls 
 
 an empty bottle, from the other smashes a beer glass. 
 
 51 
 
L> a y s of Cliinato'wn 
 
 JACK AND MARY. 
 
 In Greenwich village, while it yet could claim 
 
 The homely charm of th' unambitious name, 
 
 While yet the elevated road was new, 
 
 An engineering marvel to the view, 
 
 Ere yet the tenements' tall towering pile 
 
 Shut out the sky's blue dome, the sun's glad smile, 
 
 A boy and girl were born on the same day, 
 
 The parents neighbors. — So it happened they 
 
 Became acquainted soon as babies do 
 
 Who first smile shyly when they meet, then coo, 
 
 Then hiding in the mother bosom, peek 
 
 But furtively — aye, long ere they can speak 
 
 The innocent flirtation often shows 
 
 Prophetic of the love that later grows. 
 
 And as they grew they prattled at their play 
 
 Of keeping house, or all the summer day 
 
 In glassy plots with gold white daisies starred 
 
 A making flowery chains or mud pies in the yard. 
 
 Then later, heedless of his comrades' taunts. 
 
 The world-wide punishment of boy gallants. 
 
 He waited after school with dogged looks 
 
 Outside the gate for girls to bring her books. 
 
 Became her cavalier, her own true knight. 
 
 Upheld her charms in many a doughty fight, 
 
 Bold as a lion, walking hand in hand. 
 
 The natural freedom of youths' fairyland. 
 
 He called her "Mary"; she, not taken aback. 
 
 As easily familiar, called him ' 'Jack' ' ; 
 
 Wrestled in play, or hid, although she knew 
 
 52 
 
I^ a y s of Cliinatown 
 
 As forfeit, when he found, he'd kiss her, too. 
 Thus years flew by, and deeper still they wove 
 Their spell, yet neither wist that it was Love. 
 
 Until one evening when the sun gone down 
 
 Still cast a grace and glory o'er the town, 
 
 As though the Day, a halo round his head 
 
 Irradiate, hued the curtains of his bed. 
 
 The purple folds, now glittering with gold, 
 
 Now tawny yellow, glorious to behold. 
 
 Now edged with pink, and now aflame with red, 
 
 Then a warm grey, as Night her pinions spread, 
 
 And like a brooding bird upon the nest 
 
 Lulled Day to sleep and hushed the world to rest — 
 
 'Twas such a night, when from his work returned, 
 
 The thought to ask her hand within him burned. 
 
 But lo ! he found his tongue tied and his heart 
 
 Tumultuous beating like the waves that part 
 
 Love from all Hope. They walked the park and square, 
 
 Linked arm and arm, like many couples there. 
 
 But he felt chill in the warm, fragrant park, 
 
 The merry laugh, the humorous remark, 
 
 Both absent, till the wondering girl in jest 
 
 Asked him what crime lay heavy on his breast; 
 
 "Or, perhaps," she laughed, " 'tis love." Then quickly he 
 
 Turned to her bluntly, "Will you marry me?" 
 
 To which the girl, "There, you have spoiled it all. 
 I wish we both our vain words could recall. 
 I ne'er will wed with any one nor share 
 The yoke of marriage — oh ! I could not bear 
 To sit at home long evenings while perchance 
 My girl friends were rejoicing at the dance. 
 I could not stand the housewife's dull routine — 
 To sweep, to sew, to make the dishes clean, 
 
 53 
 
Lays of Cbinatoivn 
 
 To mind a whining child — no, I must be ; 
 
 To go and come as summer breezes free. ■ 
 
 I tire of one place soon, and of one friend. j 
 
 New scenes, new faces must new pleasures lend. ] 
 Nature designed me for a different goal, 
 And in my woman's body shrined man's strenuous soul. " j 
 
 So after further talk they parted — he ■ 
 
 To strive to live down love in agony; j 
 But she, though for the moment disconcerted, 
 
 Ere the next night forgetting, gaily flirted | 
 
 The summer through with evening parties where | 
 
 The Hudson's ample breast gay revelers bare, j 
 
 Or moonlit walks where in some shady haunt i 
 
 Her beauty drew to her some new gallant, < 
 
 But seldom Jack, who could not bear to see • 
 
 The heartless trifling of her coquetry; ^ 
 
 And so until the snow's first heavy fall ! 
 
 She went with a rich youth unto the ball, I 
 
 But came not back to ease her mother's fears \ 
 
 That night, but let her worry still in tears i 
 
 All the next day until the twilight fell ', 
 
 Ere she returned with a light laugh to tell ; 
 
 How she had gone with a girl friend to stay, | 
 
 And being so tired, had slept the hours away, ] 
 
 But had not dreamed her mother boded harm, < 
 
 'Twas foolish ever feeling such alarm. j 
 
 But now her quiet friends began to say ] 
 
 She went too often to the ball and play, 1 
 
 And marvel from what golden source she drew ; 
 
 To wear such dresses, gems and jewels, too. ) 
 
 Somehow her laugh rang out unseemly loud, ] 
 
 Her glance more bold than modesty allowed, , 
 
 54 
 
L- a y s of CHinato-w^n 
 
 Her hair grew daily yellower in tint, 
 Her cheek of paint gave finally the hint; 
 And oh! one morning from the ball she came, 
 Uncertain in her steps — an open shame. 
 
 Her father, easy-going soul till now. 
 Had credited what tale she might avow. 
 But now he saw in her wine-reddened face 
 The pathway she was treading to disgrace; 
 And so, appalled, he strove to lay the law 
 And firm control he should have shown before. 
 But all too late, for an unheeded cold 
 Now held him cobra-like in fatal fold. 
 And on his helpless bed the daughter scoffed 
 His good advice, and disobeyed him oft, 
 So wayward grown that e'en the night he died 
 She danced and spent it gaily from his side. 
 
 After the funeral, in her doubled grief, 
 
 The mother sought for possible relief 
 
 To save her daughter from the things that stung — 
 
 The glance inquiring, and the gossip tongue — 
 
 Removed her far off from the conscious throng 
 
 And neighborhood where she had lived so long. 
 
 Jack found them, though — good, loving, faithful Jack- 
 
 Whose love unworthiness could never slack, 
 
 And first the mother, then the daughter, tried 
 
 To gently urge the latter for his bride. 
 
 With lover's words he cast the horoscope 
 
 That hued the future with a larger hope. 
 
 Held out to her his honest, manly arms. 
 
 Protection sure against temptation's charms, 
 
 His loyal, watchful heart, his loving breast, 
 
 55 
 
 LofC. 
 
L* a y s of Cliinatoivn 
 
 Where she might place her head and feel at rest. 
 But Mary still, though she no longer scoffed, 
 As oft as offered her declined as oft; 
 Aye, even with tears, declaring now that she 
 Must bear in her own soul her misery. 
 Must sail her life on its own chosen tide, 
 Who was not fit for any good man's bride; 
 Then lest she might be overurged she feared, 
 One day she wrote farewell, and disappeared. 
 
 This Fortune's third became the final blow. 
 The mother sank beneath her added woe. 
 While Mary, all unconscious of her case. 
 Fell lower still, enamored of disgrace. 
 Wherein Jack found her after many a day 
 Of weary search, but Love spurred on his way, 
 While bearing, too, committed to his care, 
 Her mother's dying blessing and her prayer. 
 
 'Twas in a drinking place where one may find 
 
 The wretched, hopeless wrecks of womanlcind, 
 
 Where fallen blacks consort with baser whites, 
 
 And vile Chinese defile the lawless nights, 
 
 She, as he entered, held unto her lip 
 
 A half filled glass, and took a fiery sip. 
 
 Then put it down as quickly, taken aback 
 
 To see him enter, but she murmured "Jack." 
 
 Her voice transformed the place — he saw no more 
 
 Its wretched inmates and its filthy floor. 
 
 He had but eyes for her, whom reaching he 
 
 Enclasped and cried: "Now, you will mzxvy me." 
 
 Then gently told how long his wanderings were 
 
 To bring a mother's message unto her. 
 
 And as her tears bespoke a softened thought, 
 
 56 
 
!< a y s of CHinato-w^n 
 
 Again to go with him her promise sought, ! 
 
 Claiming that this the great reward should be j 
 
 Of so much patient love and constancy. ; 
 
 The weeping girl consented — to her room I 
 
 She brought him through the drug beclouded gloom, j 
 And hurriedly in her pitiful finery dressed ' j 
 
 (The neighboring pawnbroker held all the rest). ' 
 
 She walked with him into the open air, j 
 
 Her face a-shower with tears, and then despair i 
 
 O'erwhelmed her as she trod the well known street. \ 
 
 She raised a vial, drank its wine complete, 'i 
 
 And fell a-moaning faintly at his feet. ] 
 
 i 
 
 She lay all night unconscious in the ward, i 
 
 The white-capped nurses holding constant guard, { 
 
 But as day rose in the enkindling east, J 
 
 She woke, though sick to death, and called the priest. \ 
 
 They sent for him and Jack. The curate heard i 
 Her last confession — spoke the pardoning word. 
 
 Then Jack addr.essed him, and most briefly wove | 
 The story of his sorrow and his love. 
 "Father, she must not die," the lover cried, 
 
 "Save as an honest woman and a bride. i 
 
 Speak to her, you, and bid her bear a name - 
 
 That will take from her tombstone every shame." | 
 
 And so Jack held her hands, at last a wife, 3 
 And death came holier, happier than life. 
 
 '] 
 
 57 
 
I^ a y s of CHinato'wn 
 
 A CHINATOWN IDYLL. 
 
 Near the triangle, where the dragon flag 
 Waves o'er the yellow Tartar's vile abode, 
 There stands a house in vigorous old age, 
 Although built in the days the flute-voiced Cone 
 Proclaimed with matchless eloquence God's grace. 
 It and its brethren, still with their wide halls 
 And noble rooms, remind of spacious times 
 When wealth and beauty lived in stately grace 
 Where now breeds squalor. In the rear, a yard, 
 In summer green, with time defying box, 
 A venerable tree that greets the spring 
 With leafy welcome and a few pale blossoms 
 That long have lost the art of bearing fruit 
 (Like faded belles that seek to hide grey age 
 With trick of dress and simulated youth), 
 And some old-fashioned flowers laid out in plots, 
 Pink bleeding hearts and fragile lady slippers. 
 Blue larkspur, marigolds and four ©'clocks 
 That open when the delicate portulaca 
 Have ceased their matin worship of the sun, 
 So alien now to the surrounding scenes, 
 The hideous tenements that wall it in, 
 But cannot hide it from the vagrant bees 
 And wandering butterflies. Within that house 
 I had my office once. 
 
 The chamber faced 
 The garden spot, and here on summer nights, 
 The lights turned low, I loved to steal an hour 
 After the worry of the tedious day. 
 In cool pajamas, with the fragrant weed, 
 
 58 
 
L- a y s of Cliinato^w^n 
 
 In hazy dreams of other days and scenes, 
 
 Soothed by the moon's enchantment and the breeze. 
 
 On such a night a coal-black negress came, 
 Pushing her voluble way against protests 
 Of my Italian boy (a legal count 
 From Padua, now by Poverty compelled 
 To veil his title, drive me, tend the door 
 And bar offenders out), and heedless all 
 Of my embarassment, strode in my room. 
 Attended by a shambling apelike youth. 
 Uncouth, abashed, a coppery yellow thing. 
 With almond slanted eyes, amorphous hair. 
 Part crinkled, partly straight. 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 I asked, and tried to diagnose the boy. 
 "Come, doctor, come; she's dyin'; come at once !" 
 ** How long has she been dying? " I was used 
 To such exaggeration of slight ills 
 And strong insistence of needs paramount. 
 "T'ree hours," she answered unsuspiciously. 
 "Oh, I'm too tired now; go get Jones," I said; 
 "He's always ready for a call in need." 
 (Dear Jones, true friend, and able doctor, too). 
 • ' De Chink will pay y er well, ' ' the negress said, 
 "An' she wants yer, an' no one else will do." 
 Then like th' ungracious host of parable. 
 To save verbose annoyance, I gave in. 
 
 'Twas but short walk. An old two-storied house 
 In Park street, since torn down, was her abode. 
 Up-stairs she lived, a Chinese paramour 
 Responsible for her debts and for the boy, 
 While on the first floor lived the invalid, , 
 
 59 
 
LfSk.ys of Cliinato'wii 
 
 A white girl, with her swart Cathayan lover. 
 
 Upon a squalid bed she lay a-moaning, 
 
 In brief attire, and by her side, stretched mute, 
 
 The Chinaman, a plate of fresh white-grapes 
 
 Between them, and an opium lamp and pipe 
 
 And pills of the soul-killing drug at hand. 
 
 In semi-circle, sitting by the bed. 
 
 Were three or four poor wretches, women still. 
 
 The first, a splendid animal with large 
 
 And lustrous bovine eyes and milk-white skin. 
 
 Addressed me: "Look at Maggie, doctor, now, 
 
 'Twas Jim — yer know him — Jim, de Dood, w'at done it. 
 
 As I surmised, she had no serious harm, 
 But sorely bruised — a black and swollen eye, 
 A bleeding cheek, and one poor broken rib, 
 Where her assailant trod her prostrate form. 
 Such incidents are not rare, and in the eyes 
 Of Pell street swains not incompatible 
 With love and happiness. A stitch or two 
 And strips of plaster exorcised the spectre 
 Of Death at once. 
 
 While I was thus engaged. 
 The visiting girls — part of the pitiful tribute 
 That Cherry Hill pays the Mongolian dragon — 
 Thus chattered of the cause: Said one, a blonde. 
 Whose bright blue eyes still seemed to hold in them 
 The look of innocence surprised which must 
 Have frozen there after her first night there, 
 "De Dood oughter do time fer dis," to which 
 Libbie the Man, so called from her hard mien 
 And manner, both too masculine, replied, 
 ' ' Ferget it. W'y'd she aggervate him so ? 
 Say, didn't she took his flowers an' took de dress 
 
 60 
 
L- a y s of Cliinatoivn 
 
 He worked fer fer ter take her ter Chuck's ball, 
 An' den she gib him de machette, too. Say, 
 She jilted him fer dat squint-eyed baboon. 
 'F I was a man, an' a goil did me dirt, 
 I'd put me heel upon her mug." 
 
 ' ' He knew 
 De Chink was puttin' up fer her," replied 
 Another. "Say, w'y don't he leave her go? " 
 ' ' Ah, Jim was always taggin' after her. 
 Say, always on de corner of de street, 
 Or at de stair foot. Maggie couldn't go 
 Ter get a pint but Jimmy was at Scotty's 
 Ter carry home de growler fer her." 
 
 "Say, 
 Jimmie was try in' ter steal her here from Chu," 
 Spoke up a third one, looking unabashed 
 At the calm, careless, unreplying Chinese, 
 "An' he got left. He ought ter stood it, sure, 
 An' den said nuttin'. Say, t'ough, he was nutty 
 After Mag fer fair." 
 
 "Well," added Libbie, 
 " Dey bot' was promised when dey's boy an' goil 
 Tergeder at St. James's, long enough 
 Before she come here, an' her mot'er begged 
 De Dood ter get her from dat yaller Chink." 
 "He had no right ter smash her,'^ said the first. 
 "Say, if 'twas me, I'd cut his heart out fer it." 
 "An' die in de electric chair ?" sneered Libbie. 
 "Ah, dat's played out fer wimmen, yer can bet, 
 Since dat Dago, Barberi, got released," 
 
 The victim seemed to have no ears at all 
 For her frank callers, and the Chinaman, 
 
 6i 
 
Lays of Cliinato-wii 
 
 Caressing both her hands, appeared with her 
 
 Entirely deaf to all, although, in sooth, 
 
 He felt a wound from every word. But not 
 
 Until my work drew nigh its end in speech 
 
 Or look did he betray his wounded soul. 
 
 Yet finally he gave his sorrow tongue. 
 
 But in such tones as one would use to chide 
 
 A loving, forward child. " W'y you so bad ? 
 
 Oh, w'y you meet that Ilish bum, at all? 
 
 I gib you plenty money — no hab wolk; 
 
 I gib you plesents for youself, you mammy, 
 
 You little blothel. W'y tleat me so bad ? " 
 
 " Don't min' dem, Chu," she answered, more in wrath 
 
 Than in repentance, and the Chinaman 
 
 Continued: " Oh, you bleak my healt," and then 
 
 Asked her again, "W'y you so bad?" 
 
 At this 
 Libbie the Man took up the thread again 
 Of stern reproval. She was one of those 
 Who periodically are beset 
 
 With moonlike change of conscience. As the orb 
 Grows from the crescent into the full moon 
 Only to die into a silver thread. 
 So she lit an unprofitable flame 
 
 That waxed and waned and waxed and waned again, 
 But threw no living light upon her life 
 To change its current. '"Twas dead wrong," she said, 
 "To jolly Jim, de Dood. Yer knew de trut', 
 Dat he was nutty fer yer." 
 
 "Oh, shut up," 
 Responded Maggie, "Now yer preachin', sure, 
 But I don't see yer wearin' medals eit'er 
 Fer yer good conduct." 
 
 62 
 
1^ a y s of Cliinatoivn 
 
 " I have seen yer, Maggie, 
 On many evenin's huggin him as if 
 Yer loved him deeply." 
 
 She could stand no more. 
 The worm at last had turned. The final bandage 
 Had been drawn snug, and Maggie felt at ease 
 Throughout her physical being. She arose 
 Upon her elbow at this final charge, 
 And lifting up the plate of innocent grapes, 
 She shied it at the head of her accuser — 
 With feminine aim, however, for the fruit 
 Alone showered down upon the coterie. 
 The plate smashed harmlessly upon the wall. 
 "Oh, ain't she vicious !" cried the golden blonde. 
 "Now, git ter hell from here !" yelled Maggie, roused 
 To tigerlike vindictiveness. Erect 
 She rose, and glared at them a moment's space. 
 Then stooping, raised a bed-slat from its place 
 To emphasize her order. Libbie stood — 
 No coward — to give fight. The other girls 
 Together dragged her toward the door, while Chu 
 Threw his strong arms 'round Maggie, and in tones 
 Though soothing, firm, said: "No fight, little gell. 
 No fight; Chu send 'em home." 
 
 "We'll all get pinched," 
 Some one cried out, "if we stay here. Let's go 
 Down ter de Eel Pot." So they all ran down 
 The creaking stairs into the open street. 
 
 Where Mott street joins the Bowery, as I turned, \ 
 I saw the Dude, leaning with careless grace 
 
 Against a lamp-post, thoughtful and alone, | 
 
 The hour past one. He was a Bowery type — j 
 
 63 
 
LtSL-y s of Ctiinatoivn 
 
 A sport in shirt sleeves, and high-collared neck 
 
 'Round which his bright tie wound, a band of red. 
 
 A rakish hat was tilted o'er his eyes. 
 
 A cigarette, with intermittent fire, 
 
 Upleaned to meet it from his stern set lips. 
 
 His trousers and his waistcoat loud of check. 
 
 His pointed shoes of russet, and a gem 
 
 That glittered in the moonlight from his front. 
 
 And band and fob his sobriquet upheld. 
 
 "Say, Doc," he called, with confident effrontery, 
 
 * ' Is she all right ? I tell yer w'at it is, " 
 
 He added, walking airily by my side, 
 
 ' ' I was dead stuck on Maggie, Doc, fer fair. 
 
 Now, w'at yer t'ink of dis ? Say, fer a month 
 
 I have been a-workin' fer her, Doc; yes workin' 
 
 Down in a cooper shop — ten plunks a week — 
 
 An' all fer her. Doc, I've been savin' dough 
 
 Ter fit a little flat up. On de level, 
 
 I would have taken her before de Piiest 
 
 An' been dere reg'lar spliced, an' taken her home 
 
 Unter me mudder. Hully gee, I would. 
 
 An' she agreed. An' den she trun me down 
 
 Fer dat damned banjo skinned, rat eatin' Chink — 
 
 Wit' me good money in her stockin', too. 
 
 Say, Doc, dat set me wild. I took ter drink. 
 
 Got overflowin' wit' dat rotgut stuflf 
 
 Of Callahan's, or else I'd never licked her. 
 
 But yer know w'at yer would have done yerself 
 
 In such a case. A man can sympertise 
 
 Wit' a man always, Doc. I sometimes fear, 
 
 W'en all her promises rise in me min'. 
 
 An' I t'ink of me workin' an' givin' up 
 
 De booze an' craps an' leg shows for her sake. 
 
 Say, hully gee, I sometimes t'ink some day 
 
 I'll go ter de electric chair fer her. " 
 
 64 
 


 ^-^ ^"^ ^.^fe"- %^ / ^i<: 
 
 ^c^ "£^^^001° V-^ Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 
 ■1,^ ~ ^^^^^ "^ c; vP Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 
 k" a"^ "^ ".^ili^^jr ^S »■ Treatment Date; Sept, 2009 
 
 .<^ <^ *'..»* <o^ PreservationTechnologies 
 
 l"* .''Jc^^(!''<' 'i^ r^ t'^J^l A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
 
 <^ ,, >:^^^iAt^'%L.<'' fj. ^ * ^(u/zx 111 Thomson Park Drive 
 
 ) ■C"' "''C!^^^^^'" -^ C^ ""^^^^^ Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
 

 
 
 ^a\^ 
 
 ^^(^ 
 
 .° A^^^. ^^^^m> ,4-°^ t.^1^^0 ^0^.. >^ 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 
 '^o^ 
 
 
 -^o^ 
 
 
 •Cx *'..5* ,6 
 
 
 
 ^. 
 
 
 - ^^^«