Carey, Of Carson

The night-mist dim and darkling, As o’er the roads we pass, Lies in the morning sparkling As dewdrops on the grass. E’en so the deeds of darkness, Which come like midnight dews, Appear as sparkling items Next morning in the news.

Away in Carson City, Far in the Silver Land, There lives one Justice Carey, A man of head and hand; And as upon his table The Judge a-smoking sat There rowdied in a rougher Who wore a gallows hat.

He looked upon the Justice, But Justice did not budge Until the younger warbled, “Say—don’t you know me, Judge?” “I think,” said Carey meekly, “Your face full well I know,— I sent you up for stealing A horse a year ago.”

“Ay, that is just the hair-pin I am, and that’s my line; And here is twenty dollars I’ve brought to pay the fine.” “You owe no fine,” said Carey, “Your punishment is o’er.” “Not yet,” replied the rover; “I’ve come to have some more.

“Fust-rate assault and batt’ry I’m goin’ to commit, And you’re the mournful victim That I intend to hit, And give you such a scrampin’ As never was, nohow; And so, to save the lawin’, I guess I’ll settle now.”

Up rose the Court in splendour; “Young man, your start is fair, Sail in, my son, sail over, And we will call it square! Go in upon your chances,— Perhaps you may not miss; I like to see young heroes Ambitionin’ like this.”

The young one at the older Went in with all his heft, And, like a flyin’ boulder, At once let out his left; The Court, in haste, ducked under Its head uncommon spry, Then lifted the intruder With a puncher in the eye,—

A regular right-hander; And like a cannon-ball, The young man, when percussioned Went over on the wall. In just about a second, The Court, with all its vim, Like squash-vines o’er a meadow, Went climbing over him.

Yea, as the pumpkin clambers Above an Indian grave, Or as the Mississippi Inunders with its wave, And merrily slops over A town in happy sport, E’en so that man was clambered All over by the Court.

And in about a minute That party was so raw, He would have seemed a stranger Unto his dearest squaw; Till he was soft and tender, This morsel once so tough, And then, in sad surrender, He moaned aloud, “Enough!”

He rose; and Justice Carey Said to him ere he went, “I do not think the fightin’ You did was worth a cent. I charge for time two dollars, As lawyers should, ’tis plain; The balance of the twenty I give you back again.

“I like to be obligin’ To folks with all my powers, So when you next want fightin’ Don’t come in office hours; I only make my charges For what’s in legal time,— Drop in, my son, this evenin’, And I’ll not charge a dime.”

The young man took the guerdon, As he had ta’en the scars; Then took himself awayward To the ’Ginia City cars. ’Tis glorious when heroes Go in to right their wrongs; But if you’re only hair-pins, Oh, then beware of tongs!